Choppy Waters
by Thanwen
Summary: While in Dol Amroth for trade negotiations in the summer of 3020, Éomer, King of the Mark, encounters Lothíriel of Dol Amroth for the first time and a catenation of misunderstandings and conflictive emotions lead to a race of life and death.
1. Chapter 1

Dol Amroth, Úrime 3020, Third Age

Yawning Éomer took the little box from the marble washing stand and opened it carefully. Dipping the corner of a small moistened cloth into the peppermint-scented toothpowder, he sampled a sufficient amount of it and started to rub his teeth, trying to get rid of the staleness in his mouth. When he finally rinsed his mouth, he had to grin: Perhaps he was lucky that Imrahil had served wine last night, so he had been drinking quite slowly, not really liking the taste, though everybody else praised it. He knew quite well he would be dealing with the mother of hangovers had there been any ale, or still worse, mead, as the feast had been boring and bothersome at the same time.

He sighed, knowing he should be content, as the trading consultations with some of the most important merchants of Southern Gondor had gone so well. Now, that the Dimholt passage was open, there were shorter ways to the Mark and he had wanted the Eorlingas to do the first step, dealing out the conditions rather than waiting for any offer the Falas might come up with. Rohan needed stable trading contracts to overcome not only the aftermath of the war but also the result of Wormtongue's machinations. He raked his fingers through his unruly mane, looking about him for a comb.

How he had hated last week's negotiations! Those conceited bastards, second and third sons of Gondorean nobles, thinking the mighty horse shit of themselves, regarding the Rohirrim as some barbarian tribe from the other side of the mountains. He grinned, remembering them whispering among themselves in Sindarin, not being aware, that he was well able to understand. At least something he should thank Grandmother Morwen for!

Having found the comb, he started to untangle his sleep-matted hair, wincing and swearing under his breath. He had expected the negotiations to be exhausting and had come well-prepared, the information Erchirion had given him beforehand having proved themselves as helpful as his daily private consultations with Imrahil. Everything had worked out just fine, so why the heck was he so on edge?

Sure, the feast had been the normal Gondorean boredom: a rich meal, stately dances and a never-ending row of hopeful fathers, shoving their no less hopeful daughters in his face. Béma, the thought of them was worse than the foul taste left by that unaccustomed wine! Gondorean "beauties"! He snorted with disdain. Give him one healthy and willing scullery maid of the Mark and they could stuff all their beauties up their stiff arses. He smirked. A barbarian they thought him, but they threw their daughters at him, or rather, truth be told, at his crown.

Throwing the comb back on the shelf he fetched some leather riband to tie back his hair. Today he would go sailing with Imrahil's offspring, and that at the least promised some fun, though he could not well imagine the daughter coming along too.

Amrothos and Erchirion had been telling him endless stories about the bliss of the sea and the pranks of their sister, but he could not bring the funny tales and affectionate descriptions into accord with the cool, aloof young woman her had met the other day. Elegant, yes, graceful, yes, intelligent, yes, beautiful...maybe. She resembled Amrothos and Imrahil a lot: tall and slender, the same jet-black hair, grey eyes, even features, high cheekbones... Numenorean blood to be sure, but he had felt rebuked by her courtly politeness, that artificial smile that had never reached her eyes. He had been quite relieved that he had not been obliged to dance with her, as she had not danced at all.

He tried to shrug off his scepticism. He needed some fresh air and there was still some time till breakfast. He briefly thought of going over to the stables, but he would not have enough time to take Firefoot for a ride, and anyway the Lady Geliris of Dol Amroth certainly would not appreciate him turning up at the breakfast table smelling of horse. Chuckling he admitted to himself that he liked Imrahil's wife a lot. Her calm friendliness had worked like a balm on his mind after hours of tedious discussions, and it had been her, who had invited him to use the concealed private garden for a walk whenever he liked, feeling he had need of exercise in between the cumbersome meetings. He had enjoyed these silent walks a lot, and so he finally decided to head for Prince Imrahil's garden.

As soon as he stepped through the wrought-iron gate into the walled garden, he felt soothed by the sight of greens of all shades, blossoms of all shapes and colours, the whispering of the light breeze in the multitude of foliage, as single trees offered shade, and the pleasant sounds of trickling water, laid over with buoyant birdsong.

Taking a deep breath of the cool air, still faintly scented with the nocturnal jasmine, he followed the meandering gravel-strewn path, till he reached a more secluded corner, he had not examined yet in his walks during the last week. Here the jasmine stood in ample shrubs, mixed with bougainvillea. He grinned to himself, remembering having asked Imrahil for the plants' names.

Quite educating, such a journey, if one did not mind the pesky and brain-numbing negotiations. Strange what a garden could do to ones mind. Éowyn would have liked it. Perhaps he should ask the Lady about the possibility to sent some of those plants to Ithilien.

He smiled, thinking of the happiness in his sister's eyes. Éowyn...Just two sennights since her marriage...

He suddenly felt cold despite the sun, colouring the encircling white walls in a soft pink. It would be strange to come home to Meduseld without her standing on the terrace to welcome him. Shaking his head like a wet dog, he tried to get rid of the moody feeling.He had to manage, and he would.

He stretched himself, resting his folded hands behind his head, bending backwards till he felt his joints crack. It would be good to be out in the fresh air for more than just some brief walks, though what to expect from a day in one of these "sloops" Imrahil's brood was so fond of he didn't know.

Approaching the climbing shrubs for a closer look at the magenta petals, he noticed that they covered a shed, probably for gardening tools or the like. Just as he was about to turn around and head back for the gate, he discerned some movement in the shed accompanied by a sound like the fluttering of a small bird's wings.

Curious all of a sudden, he entered, and as his eyes adjusted to the dimness, he saw it, all tangled up in a bundle of bast, hanging down from the low ceiling. Carefully he cupped the frightened bird, bast and all in the hollow of one of his large hands, cut the strand off and went to the door to untangle the tiny captive. Smiling he carefully plucked it out of the tangles, removing the fibres till the bird was finally freed. He recognized it as some kind of redstart, yet slightly different from what he knew from Rohan. Slowly opening his hand, he held it up, his smile deepening as it took wing, quickly disappearing into the foliage of an oleander nearby. Picking up the remains of the bast he turned to put it back, when suddenly the noise of approaching steps could be heard on the gravel. Someone stopped the other side of the thick leave curtain.

"What is it now?" he heard Erchirion ask.

"I'll just get some of these to put in a cool room, lest they wilt till the evening and not be fit for decoration any more." A female voice, strangely familiar, but he could not assign it definitely. There was a certain edge in the voice, as if the woman was suppressing her irritation. Then the clipping noise of some scissors could be heard.

He thought of stepping out of the shed to make his presence known, when the woman continued: "Don't roll your eyes like that, I know I can't avoid meeting him. That scum! What did Elphir think, inviting him anyway!" The suppressed fury in her voice was more than obvious now.

"Loth, you know how important he is for Dol Amroth."

Loth...All of a sudden Éomer realised, who she was: Lothíriel of Dol Amroth, Erchirion's sister. But who was she referring to?

"Elphir despises him as much as you do, sister, but we can't afford slighting him, with his connections and influence in Minas Tirith. It's the position Father heeds, not the man." Erchirion's voice sounded impatient and harsh.

Éomer hestitated. Who were they talking about? Would they not feel embarrassed if he turned up, making clear that he had overheard their remarks?

"I know, and I well know how important the development of trade is for both, Gondor and Rohan, but did he have to come himself? Why couldn't he send an emissary?" Her voice sounded impatient and irked.

Realisation made his skin crawl, and with clenched fists Éomer found his suspicion confirmed when Erchirion answered.

"It can't be helped, sister. I very much would have it otherwise, but it's the bane of war: Too often the brave and worthy die first, and the left-behind beneficiary gathers up the reins that were never meant for his hands."

A bitter laugh answered to that. "Aye, I'm just glad at least his poor sister managed to establish herself with a reliable husband and well out of his influence."

Echirion chuckled: "Loth, his sister has never bent to his or anybody's will, did you really expect her to start know?"

Hidden behind the curtain of bougainvilleas, Éomer bit his fist, not to roar out with rage and disappointment.

With an angry snort Erchirion's sister stopped cutting, and from the sound of it, threw the scissors into some basket. "Anyway... to invite him to our sailing trip was totally unnecessary. How can anybody with any honesty and reputation enjoy this bastard's company! I nearly choked on my fury and contempt yesterday, having to play the hostess, retaining courtly politeness face to face with that cockroach."

"You won't have to be on his boat, so try and calm down." Erchirion didn't sound very convincing.

"No, certainly not, and he may well be glad for it, because no doubt I would push him overboard. Oh, how I wished he would just drown!"

"He well may and good riddance." Erchirion's voice now sounded as bitter as hers. "Nobody will need him anyway, now the trade agreements have been signed." He sighed again. "Loth, let's make the most of it, as we can't avoid him. Let's tickle his pride and provoke him to a race, at least that would give us the opportunity to unite against him. And sailing with Amrothos you'll stand a fair chance to face him down."

Lothíriel gave a mirthless laugh. "I think you are right, though I rather would we were able to enjoy some racing without this pest present. But brother, will King Éomer be up to it? Amrothos told me, he has never been sailing before." The sounds suggested she was picking up the basket.

"Don't worry," Erchirion assured his sister, "He may not have any experience, but I think he'll be up to the challenge... Though he might well end up feeding the fish." His chuckles became fainter as the two of them strode towards the gate.

"Anyway, he'd better sail with you and Elphir. I would not like to have him aboard of Amrothos' boat. It just would not be fair..."

Whatever she added was lost to Éomer as they had walked too far by now for him to catch. He stood motionless in the dimness of the shade, till the clunk of the gate told him they had left the garden.

He never knew how he found his way out of the garden. Rage, mortification and hurt blazed inside him, gushed through his veins, the feeling of betrayal throttled him, clawed like an ice-cold fist around his racing heart, the back of his eyes burnt.

He would leave Dol Amroth. At once! Curse the negotiations, curse trade, curse alleys! He didn't need that Gondorean filth, he'd rather burn in Mordor's fires than go back and face their ever so polite deceiving smile. He would make it without them – and if not, let the void take him. He'll get his men back to Rohan.

Without noticing, he had stormed off to the stables and only when he arrived there, he woke back to reality. The dim, cool place somehow soothed his soaring temper, the familiar scent of horses and hay engulfing him like a mothering embrace.

Firefoot nickered softly, shoving his head over the low door of the box. He went up to the stallion, opened the door and went in. Immediately the charger nuzzled his face, and Éomer absentmindedly patted the grey's neck.

How could Erchirion think of him like that? How come he had never felt any clue all the time they had been together? They had almost been like brothers on the way to the Black Gate, shared the dangers of battle, the stench, the nagging uncertainty, ever been so close. And Imrahil? He felt the mere thought chilling his very soul. Brave and gentle Imrahil, whose alertness had saved Éowyn ... He had thought to know them so well – how could they have been play acting without him feeling it?

The sister? Yesterday she had been ever so cool, ever so polite, ever so distant – and then this morning's outbreak of unmasked disgust and hatred. Why? What had he done? Did they all feel like hat? He felt Firefoot nudging his hands for some treat.

"Sorry, old fellow. I haven't got anything for you." He scratched the stallion's forelock and suddenly reality sunk in.

"_I haven't got anything for you."_

He would have to tell that to his people... He would come home empty-handed to a people needing grain to survive the upcoming winter as for a second year there had not been enough seeds, and large parts of the Westfold lay still desolate and barren with Saruman's poison. He felt the bile rise in his throat. He couldn't do that, they deserved better.

His country needed the trade to develop, to shake off the fetters of the past... Gondor was coveting Rohan's horses and wool of superior quality, hungry for minerals and pelts... they would pay in grain and steel. The treaties were signed, the conditions were highly favourable for Rohan... Why had Imrahil supported him that much if he thought so lowly of him? He was at a total loss.

Breathing deep to steady himself, he made up his mind: They could leave tomorrow without causing a stir...in two days at the most. For his people's sake he would swallow his pride and let them pretend to be true friends some time longer. No need to come back. No need to create a scandal. His mouth twisted in a bitter smile: He had been eavesdropping, so there was no way to demand an explanation now. He should have done it there and then. And to what end? It would have been stupid, desastrous for his people. He groaned and leaned his forehead against Firefoot's neck.

"What's wrong? Regal hangover?" Éothain's jaunty voice kicked him out of his brooding. He spun round. The leader of his guard was standing in front of Firefoot's box, resting his elbows on the low door and smirking from ear to ear.

"No, but I wished it was." With a sudden pang Éomer realised he could not tell his childhood friend about what he had heard, as there was no certitude of getting Éothain's reaction under control.

Sensing the seriousness of Éomer's irritation, Éothain cocked an eye at him."Well, then who put the burr under your saddle?"

"It's nothing. I'm fine, everything is alright." Éomer found his own voice not convincing at all.

His friend simply snorted: "My arse! If that's the face you pull if everything is alright I don't want to see you if you're having some problems."

Éomer just shrugged. "Can't be helped. Try and find an apple for that big oaf of mine. I'm bound to go sailing with Imrahil's children."

Éothain chuckled. "Ah, that's the way the wind blows! You'll be in for quite some puking as they told me in the barracks. Imrahil's brats are said to have learned sailing from Osse himself. Quite a bunch of pirates, and the girl the worst of all, from what they say."

He opened the door of the box for Éomer to pass through. Then he clapped his friend and king's shoulder. "That's what you get for being King: You have to face the dangers of the sea and make an ass of yourself in front of Imrahil's offspring, and Rohan will get fed."

Éomer cringed inwardly. Far too near the mark for his taste. At least his friend believed to have caught the reason for his obvious uneasiness. They left the stables together, and when Éomer took his leave to enter the palace and join Imrahil's family for breakfast, Éothain gave him a nudge: "Just to be sure... You won't tell me about the real hitch, will you?"

Éomer looked up. "What are you yakking about?"

Éothain shook his head. "Éomer, you may be able to sell some lie to those snotty courtiers, but you can't deceive a friend. That's just impossible."

_Wish you were right. _Éomer looked into his friend's eyes: cerulean, open, honest_, _the worried look obvious now_._

"No," he said, "you're wrong. It may well be possible, but friends are simply not supposed to deceive you."

He entered the parlour, thankful that the routine that had settled in during the past week enabled him to behave in a casual and unsuspicious manner. Prince Imrahil and his wife were already sitting at the large polished mahogany table accompanied by their eldest son Elphir and their daughter Lothíriel. Amrothos and Ercheirion were nowhere to be seen. Food was displayed as always on a sideboard, and after bidding the princely family a good morning, Éomer went to take some bread and cheese, his appetite being less than low.

Imrahil gave him a queer look. "Amrothos and Erchirion went ahead to the harbour to ready the boats," the Prince explained, adding with a subtle grin: "How do you feel, Éomer? You look a bit tense."

"Perhaps we all would, if it was to be our first day aboard a boat," Elphir, always the diplomat, interjected, though he couldn't keep himself from grinning and quipping with a slight undertone: "Though I don't know how deep you were in your cups yesterday."

"Just stop it!" Éomer startled at the quite sharp tone of the remark. Lothíriel had risen from the table and now came over to where he still stood near the sideboard. "As far as I noticed, Lord Éomer drank near to nothing at the feast."

Very well, Lady Disdain coming to his rescue. Éomer felt his jaws set.

"My Lord," she addressed him, " I had cook prepare some ginger tea for you. It will hopefully prevent your stomach from unnecessary upheaval." Her voice was even, her face serious, rather showing concern if anything else. How could she dissemble like that? He felt like gagging.

He put down the plate he was holding and said as calm as possible: "Well, perhaps I shouldn't eat anything then."

"No," she stated emphatically, "That would just make things worse. It's an ordeal if your stomach is heaving and there is nothing in it you can throw up."

"You'd better believe my daughter," Imrahil laughed. "I've seen more than one bold sailor hanging over the guardrail all green in the face. It's even advisable to keep eating in between the puking fits, as long as you manage to get the food faster down than it comes up again."

"What a fitting topic of conversation for a royal breakfast table," his wife remarked drily, much to her husbands merriment.

"Don't you worry, Éomer, " the Prince finally added in a more sober manner, "I don't even think there is any danger of you getting seasick. The wind is just fine and steady and the swell is not worth mentioning, so there is a solid chance you'll enjoy the day. Though I would advise you, to rather sail with Erchirion."

"That's what I'll do as well," Elphir admitted laughingly. "Amrothos is sailing like a drunken Umbarian, much too risky for my taste. Let Lothíriel capsize together with him, to make them get what they both deserve!"

His sister gave just the kind of snort Éomer had heard from his hiding place in the garden and busied herself, pouring some of the ginger tea and handing him the cup. Taking it reluctantly, he sat down besides her. How could they all manage to behave so totally cordial towards him? Had he not up to now taken pride in his ability to sense falsehood when it encountered him? Looking up, he found Lothíriel glaring at her grinning brother, their parents watching the two of them, smiling lightly.

At last Imrahil shook his head. "Nay, Elphir, they won't do you the favour, though I dare say they tempt fate."

Turning to Éomer he explained: "They are mad about sailing, but they know what they are doing. Nevertheless, as it is your first try at sailing, going with Erchirion's boat will probably be more convenient for you, as it is steadier."

"As is the captain," Elphir added.

How very nicely and thoughtful they worked together to get him on Erchirion's boat and out of his sister's way! Éomer felt the bite of white soft bread he had just taken like wool in his mouth. What a lying show they were putting up!

"Try Erchirion on the tour towards Tol Cobas," Lothíriel said, giving her brother a dark look, "and if everything is alright with you, and you feel up to it, come with Amrothos and me on the way back, to get a taste of real sailing."

Being at a loss of words, Éomer looked at the grinning faces across the table. What was it, he wasn't compassing? He wished he could jump up, upturn the table and just jell his frustration at them, when the calm voice of Imrahil's wife reached his ear.

"Children, I do hope you'll enjoy the trip, but please, be careful and don't set aside reason. Remember you are having a dear guest and friend in your care and responsibility."

Looking up he caught her eyes: a soft brown, like the fertile soil of the Emnet, and with a jolt of his heart he saw worry in them and sadness unconcealed.

Annotations:

Úrime: Quenja equivalent of August

Before the toothbrush was introduced in Europe in the seventeenth century, people used different kind of pastes or powders, rubbing them on their teeth with rags or simply the fingers in order to clean off the dental plaque.


	2. Chapter 2

Note: I'd like to thank all those who read and enjoyed the first chapter. I normally answer to all the reviews, but could not do so in some cases, as the writers declined being contacted. Well, be thanked this way. I'll try to update once a week, unless RL gets really unpredictable.

There will be some drastic language, as I intend to write in a realistic way, and am old enough to know the difference between a member of the boys' choir and some hard-boiled warrior. If you feel easily offended, please don't read. If you think, the story should be upgraded because of some expressions, please let me know.

**Chapter 2**

Leaving the busy quays behind them, they passed into the outskirts of Dol Amroth, a clutter of little whitewashed houses, workshops and shipyards huddled along the rocky bay that formed a natural haven, blotched with little crafts of all different sizes and colours. The unpaved dirt road followed more or less the shore of the bay with most of the buildings to their left, while between its edge and the water fishing nets were drying on frames, obstructing the free view over the port.

Walking in front with Elphir and Lothíriel, Éomer tried to get the morning's events into a pattern that was making sense, while Éothain and young Folcred were following behind, together with two guards in the colours of Dol Amroth, keeping a respectful distance. When there was a sudden stop, as one of the craftsmen had approached Elphir and was now talking with him and his sister about a certain piece of equipment, Erchirion had ordered for their boat, they closed up.

Feeling his friend's inquiring glance, Éomer decided to avoid looking at him and rather let his eyes sweep over the people lining the path to get a glimpse at the prince's children and their royal guest. A young woman in a simple dark garment caught his eye, as she stood in front of the open door of one of the workshops, an infant on her hip. In front of her stood a little barefooted girl, not more than four years of age, clutching her mother's apron with one hand and hugging a quite threadbare rag-doll with the other, while eyeing the men with a frown. Her dark brown curls were unkempt, her frock heavily patched and her face streaked with dirt, but her eyes were clear and her chubby cheeks glowing with health. Suddenly she stepped forward and patted Éothain's knee. "Are you from Rohan?"

Surprised the captain of the guard looked down at her and nodded. "Den where is your horse?" she asked.

Her mother rushed up, apologizing to him and trying to pull her little daughter away, but Éothain raised his hand, motioning to her to be at ease and bent down to the child.

"The king is going on a sailing trip, little mite, the boat's too small for his horse," he explained in heavily accented Westron, trying not to laugh at the little girl's serious requests.

The frown on her face deepened. "Are you de king?"

"No." Pointing his thumb at Éomer, he added: "He is."

The girl looked doubtfully from him to Éomer and stated: "But you are wearing … dis," gingerly touching the hem of his shiny mail shirt, obviously thinking Éomer's linen clothes much less impressive.

By now the odd couple was in the centre of everyone's attention, and Éomer beheld smiling faces, people nudging each other and overheard some joking remarks, commenting the unusual entertainment.

Éothain was grinning openly. "I'm his guard, accompanying him down to the jetty. A king is to have a guard, you see."

Cocking her head, she said: "You fpeak funny."

"You speak funny, too," Éothain countered without hesitation.

But his little challenger was not that easily cowed. "Mama says I'll learn when I'm bigger. But you are big an' ftill fpeak funny."

Éomer watched the reaction of the crowd. Some bystanders now smirked openly, some women giggled, only the girl's mother opened her mouth in shock and dismay, before helplessly covering it with her hand.

He felt sudden anger stir within him. _So that's it! We "speak funny", don't we? We are a funny, uncouth barbarian lot, aren't we?_

But Éothain just threw his head back guffawing and bent to scoop the little girl up in his arms, doll and all. "Surely, clever clogs, that's what my mama told me too, when I was as small as you. But we speak a different language in Rohan."

"A different language?" the girl's eyes opened wide.

"Yes," grinned Éothain, adding in Rorirric: " Ic sprece se tunge thaera Mearc."

"Dat's your language?"

Éothain nodded.

With a thoughtful expression she stroked his red golden whiskers. "What did you say?"

"I speak the language of Rohan."

Éothain repeated the sentence slowly, translating it word by word, and word by word, with an expression of uttermost concentration on her round little face, she repeated them: "Ic fprece se tunge daera Mearc"

Grinning from ear to ear, Éothain prodded her tummy with his large forefinger: "Now you sound funny in Rorirric, too; like my little sister, when she was your age."

The little girl nodded in her strangely serious way: "Dad says de Rohirrim are our broders and saved us when de dark Lord came."

It took Éomer all the presence of mind he could muster not to stare at her open mouthed. The faces in the circle had turned serious now, an old woman dabbing her eyes with the hem of her apron.

Éothain softly kissed the girl's dirty cheek and turned to put her down besides her mother, when her dark eyes met Éomer's.

Pulling gingerly at Éothain's whiskers, the girl leaned back in his arms and tilted her head to look at him... then back at Éomer. "He looks sad," she finally stated.

Éothain nodded. "Yes, he does." And looking straight into his friend's face he added: "When we fought against the dark Lord, a lot of his men died... He lost many of his friends in the war, and the old king, his uncle, died too."

The frown reappeared on her face, and then suddenly she stretched out her short, chubby arms, shoving her grubby rag-doll at Éomer. "Dere, you have Melian."

He cautiously took the doll. "Why?"

"Mama made her for me when Granny died and I was sad. In de night when it was dark, I was very sad an' I cried. Melian will watch over you when you sleep. You won't have to be alone in de dark."

He felt the small rag-doll in his large hands, the child's sincere eyes on his face and swallowed, his throat suddenly tight._ Screw the conceited idiots!_ It didn't matter any more that some of the bystanders smirked at the girl's remark and the shabby doll in the king's large hands.

He took a ragged breath. This too was Gondor. "What's your name, little one?"

"Melwen."

"Well, look Melwen, it's very kind of you to give me Melian, but I'll be sailing today, and she might get wet. And then I'll be going back to Rohan, that is far away and Melian might miss Dol Amroth and get homesick." He carefully put the doll back in the child´s arms.

She looked down at its featureless face, obviously deep in thought, and then lifted her eyes again. Shaking her head she said: "See, if you love her, Melian won't feel homesick. I'll keep her for you till you come back from sea. Den you can have her in de evening."

She nodded, having made up her mind and demanded Éothain to put her down. Stepping besides her mother, she looked up to Éomer: "We'll wait for you at de jetty."

Éomer felt a hand on his shoulder, and turning his head, he found himself looking into Elphir's grave grey eyes. "The tide doesn't wait. Let's go...brother."

When they finally arrived at the jetty, Erchirion and his younger brother Amrothos stood waiting for them besides their boats, one of which had been moored directly to the bollards on the pier, while the second one, a longer, yet more sveltely built craft, lay tied up to the far side of the first one. A short distance further down a third boat was tied up, it's dark, polished wood reflecting the sunrays. Two sailors in some kind of livery stood near its bow, seemingly waiting for someone.

Éomer felt a knot in his stomach. How should he greet Erchirion? Would he be able to hide his feelings? A few strides brought him up to Imrahil's sons, and before he could make up his mind, how to behave, he felt himself caught in a bear hug by a broadly grinning Erchirion. He went rigid, and Erchirion pushed him off at arm's length to look enquiringly into his face.

"Man, Éomer, don't take it that serious. The weather is just fine for a sailing trip, not the slightest chance to sacrifice to Osse!"

Lothíriel had stepped up to Amrothos in the meantime, kissing him on the cheek, before jerking her head in the direction of the third boat, rising her eyebrows enquiringly at the same time. In response her brother turned all smirks and winked at Erchirion. "His Lordship has not turned up yet. Some people tend to have certain feelings of discomfiture after a wassail with your dear brothers."

A sudden flash of a vicious smile shot over Lothíriel's face, before she slewed round to face Elphir and Éomer. Her face showing nothing but courtly haughtiness now, she announced in a voice dripping with contempt: "Well, the tide is already quite low, so as much as we might regret it, if he has not turned up yet, we won't be able to wait for Lord Handasse Masca." With that she whirled round, kicked her shoes off, and snatching them up, jumped into the first boat.

Amrothos hurried after her, while Elphir started to remove his shoes and motioned to Éomer to do the same, much to the entertainment of the Rohirric guards. Only now did he notice, that Erchirion and Amrothos had already been barefoot. He stepped aboard quite gingerly, but soon he relaxed, the planks of the boat feeling warm and smooth under his soles.

The princess had put down her satchel and now took a length of thin, dark blue cloth out of it, which she wound around her head with apt fingers, covering her hair completely. Smiling at Éomer, she handed him a similar cloth in green. "You'd better cover your mane, unless you are madly fond of inseparable tangles." Éomer hesitated, but then he saw out of the corner of his eyes that Amrothos was busy winding a cloth around his long black curls.

"You'd better do her biding," Erchirion quipped with a grin, busy with his own headscarf, "She can get quite persistent. And you have to acknowledge, she even chose the Rohirric colours for you."

"Though it won't be necessary to distinguish you, as you will soon be wearing Rohan's colours all over your face." Amrothos' snicker switched to a wail, as he bent to rub his shin, were his sister had kicked him vigorously.

"You're an imbecile, Roth," she said, her eyes sparkling with laughter. "Come, Brother of mine, let's cast off."

With nimble grace she climbed over to the slender boat tied up alongside, followed by her brother, and while Amrothos cast off the ropes and pushed the boat off the other vessel's side, she pulled up the fenders and then went to sit at the tiller while her brother busied himself hoisting the sails.

Well aware of Éothain and Folcred, watching him from the jetty, Éomer carefully went to sit on the gunwale, while Elphir and Erchirion prepared their boat to cast off.

Being pushed off the mooring with an oar, the boat turned her bow towards the port entrance, and the single sail soon billowed in the breeze.

Fascinated Éomer watched the brothers' coordinated actions, while the boat slowly took up speed. Elphir manoeuvred her deftly through the harbour, and when Éomer looked ahead, he saw Amrothos' boat already passing the last rocks near the port entrance. Moving out of the cliff's lee, her sails tautened and the boat heeled visibly.

When their own boat went out into the bay, Erchirion adjusted the ropes that held the sail and then dived into the cuddy, looking for some provisions.

Elphir pointed north-west. "The island of Tol Cobas lies over there, but as the tide is already quite low, we can't make a beeline for it but have to follow the deep channel supplied by the Ringló, flowing into the bay near Edhellond and passing Dol Amroth before finally reaching the open sea. I hope we'll still be able to pass the island to the east and round it for a very nice bay in the north of it."

"Then why did we wait that long, if the low tide makes it so difficult to reach the island?"

Elphir smiled: "Spiny lobsters. We'll arrive at low tide, which enables us to catch them quite easily in the coves on the west coast of Tol Cobas, without having to wait more time for the water to be shallow enough."

Éomer wasn't sure to have ever heard of anything called spiny lobster, but he just didn't feel like asking. He felt unsure of himself, like in some strange kind of dream. The movement of the boat, the sound of the wind, the salty tang in the air, the splashing of the waves against the boat's bow and the unimpeded view over the vast space of water soothed and excited him at the same time. He looked down into the green water, rushing by, feeling a certain loss of mental balance. What was he to believe? What could he rely on? Who could he trust? Had he really heard that talk between the siblings in the morning? Was he imagining things? Would he not feel it if Imrahil's children were deceiving him?Yet there was no falsehood in Erchirion's behaviour... brave, pragmatical Erchirion, who reminded him that much of Éothain. He abruptly checked himself. He had to find out what all this was about, and he'd better face it now.

"Bloody fools", Erchirion muttered, coming up from the cuddy with some bread and a wineskin in his hand, waving somehow uncoordinatedly into the direction of Amrothos' boat. "One day they'll manage to capsize just fine."

Elphir shrugged. "You know best yourself they won't. Let them have some fun, Brother. You're just jealous our own nutshell won't take up speed like that."

With a snort Erchirion sat down, resting his back against the mast, the wineskin between his feet. "I don't begrudge them the fun, especially after Loth having been stuck with Alphros for almost a fortnight, but they never know any limit."

Seeing Éomer's questioning look, Elphir explained: "We had a rush of three-day-measles recently, and my son caught it as well. My wife being pregnant, the healers forbid her to tend to him but rather advised her to stay away from him as the illness might affect the unborn child. So our sister attended to the poor mite, well until yesterday. And then she took over the role of Dol Amroth's hostess to spare our mother the ordeal..." His voice petered out and he absentmindedly stared at the horizon.

Éomer felt his hackles rise. There it was again, this suspense, the feeling there was something nasty lurking beneath a surface of sunlit waters. The Lady Geliris had never seemed frail to him, what could there be that would make presiding over the celebrations to honour the trade agreement such an imposition? He had to end this uncertainty. Like in a fight he would have preferred his opponent to make the first move, but it could not be helped now.

Just as he was about to open his mouth, Erchirion shove the wineskin at him: "Here, have some real thing, not that baby piss they call tea."

Sniffing the mouthpiece of the container, he could not help a grin: He would have taken any bet that Erchirion preferred ale for breakfast. Seeing Éomer's reaction, Erchirion's face broke into a wide grin. "See, Amrothos and I went down to the harbour first thing in the morning to make sure we could cast off as soon as you arrived, so there has been no time for some decent breakfast."

"Well Brother," Elphir countered, " I suppose any other man would rather consume the amount of grain he needed for breakfast in the shape of bread or porridge."

"You're just a party pooper, brother. Serves you well to be responsible for the madhouse Dol Amroth when Father will settle at court in Minas Tirith."

Taking a swig, Éomer launched the first approach. "Perhaps you were right to be so well prepared. Your sister seemed rather eager to get going." Handing back the skin, he waited for Erchirion's reaction.

"And perfectly right she was." Ripping off a big piece of bread and munching vigorously, Erchirion continued: "We all were more than happy that swine hadn't turned up."

Elphir audibly cleared his throat, shooting his younger brother a warning look.

_So that's how the land lies!_ Or were they just trying to distract him?

"You mean Lord... what did your sister call him? Handas..."

"Handasse Masca," Erchirion quipped, grinning like mad.

Éomer frowned. "Never heard of he at the negotiations?"

Instead of answering, Erchirion howled with laughter.

Éomer felt a strange sort of twinge in his stomach. What did that remind him of? Where had he seen Imrahil's son like that before? An image formed itself in his mind: Erchirion, sitting on the ground at the Black Gate, the earth heaving with the convulsion of Sauron's downfall. Erchirion, his armour torn and gored, his helmet lost, a gash across his forehead, blood, sweat and grime mixing on his face. Erchirion, his head thrown back, laughing like mad, his eyes pinched shut, tears of laughter trickling through his swollen, crusted eyelids... and suddenly he knew Erchirion's cheerfulness for what it was: relief. Sheer relief. But why?

What was all this about? He shot Elphir an enquiring glance and Imrahil's eldest son explained in his calm and reserved way: "Oh, you surely have been introduced to him at the feast, though most certainly not under that title."

That called forth another fit of laughter from Erchirion, while his brother continued to explain further, his face as blank as possible, yet his eyes seemed to sparkle with mischief. "Well, his real name is Mardil, and he is Lord of Edhellond, one of Gondor's more important nobles. And as he is so proud of his ancestry, our sister dubbed him in Quenja, the most scholarly language in Middle Earth, and certainly one only few people understand. Handasse means brain in Westron and masca soft. "

"That is, she called him an idiot?" Éomer asked.

Erchirion by now had switched to snorting, and added, still unable to contain his mirth: "Nay, it rather refers to what some people believe to be the consequences of a too high intensity of a certain activity." He made some distinct fist movements in front of his groin.

Éomer's eyebrows shot up: Did they want to tell him, the Princess of Dol Amroth had called an important noble of Gondor quite publicly a wanker?

Seeing his disbelief, Erchirion assured him: "You certainly can trust our sister to call a spade a spade."

And his elder brother added, with just the hint of a smile playing in the corners of his mouth: "You certainly can. But she'll ever do it in such an accomplished way."

"Yeah," Erchirion acknowledged, "she can be such a lady. Unless she is with Amrothos, then she immediately transmutes into a pirate."

"Whereas with Erchirion she turns into a swearing stable hand," Elphir chuckled.

"Well," Éomer threw in, "at least the lady I saw at the feast yesterday."

But Erchirion emphatically shook his head. "No, you saw the diplomat. To see the lady you have to see her dance. She has a grace that makes you even enjoy those stiff and stately Gondorean court dances." Another chunk of bread disappeared between his big white teeth, before he continued: "You see, to avoid the obligation to dance with …," he peeked at his brother, "his Lordship, she had to forgo dancing at all."

"It is ever so easy to drop some hint about a sprained ankle," Elphir added. "Just tell it to the servants and the whole court will know in the time of lightning. And with her not having been in public because of Alphros' illness..." He shrugged. "It worked, didn't it?"

_Mardil of Edhellond_, Éomer pondered. He didn't remember anybody of that name being present at the negotiations, and he bluntly said so.

"Yes," Elphir nodded, "he wasn't, "though he had been officially invited. He only turned up the evening of the feast and that really affected us, as we had thought we had got rid of him."

Éomer slid down from the gunwale to sit more comfortably with his back against it. The information seemed to make sense, fitted with what he had heard and seen...Trying to keep his voice even, he probed deeper. "And what makes you that sick about him?"

The brethren looked at each other, and then Erchirion growled: "He is the most hideous swine I can imagine, he's a coward, an upstart, oh bugger, he simply is everything I despise in a man." He took a final gulp before he stopped the skin and got up to put it away.

Elphir thoughtfully look at his broad back, hunched over the cuddy and sighed, before turning towards Éomer. "Mardil certainly is a disgrace to his name and his family. He was never meant to inherit the title, but with his father and his elder brothers having fought valiantly and fallen at the Fords of Linhir, he was the last male member of the family. Except for his cronies nobody is happy with the situation, but it can't be helped. Edhellond was quite important in the negotiations, and quite interested in them as well, but Mardil had been clever enough to sent his counsellors rather than coming himself."

"The sod even had the nerve to brag that he had not been present to avoid too much contact with certain uncouth barbarians." Erchirion let himself plop ungracefully to his former place near the mast. "But when he heard about our plans to go sailing, the presence of said barbarians' king didn't keep him from inviting himself along. Bloody bastard!"

"His boat is better than mine and probably even faster that Amrothos'. How could you expect him to let such a chance to show off slip?" Elphir asked with a wry smile.

"He didn't turn up though." Éomer fought to keep down the urge to believe them, to relax into the banter, that reminded him of the Field of Cormallen, to just shove away all uncertainty and trust them as before. He first had to be sure about this.

Erchirion chuckled. "No, he really didn't. Roth and I got him as pissed as a newt between the two of us and I'll be buggered if he'll manage to see straight before noon."

"Well, as far as I know that's Éothain's tactic to get rid of twats," Éomer stated, "perhaps your battle tactics are catching some barbaric taint from too much contact?"

The brethren laughed. "Nay," Elphir finally stated, "at least this brother of mine surely is more barbaric than all Rohirrim together ever will be."

"Father is all the time afraid I might turn up married to some tavern wench after one of our booze-ups."Erchirion admitted. "Not that I expect Rohan's nobility to have a certain bias to _marry _tavernwenches."

"No, certainly not." Éomer couldn't help but grin. Erchirion, waking up with some good solid hangover, finding himself married to some tavern girl was quite an entertaining image. "Perhaps we should at least marry you off to some Rohirric wench, at least your father would not have to see the misery," he smirked.

"Pha! I wouldn't call it misery, there are worse things to happen to a man than to marry a tavern girl," Erchirion snorted, "But truth be told, sometimes I think you know better how to take things in your stride in Rohan."

"We certainly do," Éomer affirmed, "but that does not mean that life is easier in the Mark."

"Don't get me wrong. It surely isn't. But you don't insist in making it even more difficult with a whole lot of rules and regulations on propriety!" Erchirion huffed.

"Well brother," Elphir quipped, "perhaps we should ask Éomer to find you a wife in Rohan to keep you satisfied."

Éomer felt it impossible to resist the bait: "True, and with so many good men lost in the war, there will be quite a bunch of young widows to chose from."

Erchirion grinned. "Widows normally are Amrothos part of the trade. But I surely would not mind some nice cuddly thing with ample tits and a big bum."

"Seems you need them large to find them in your ordinary state of drunkenness." Éomer was now grinning as wide as Erchirion. "Well, we'll find you some strapping widow with a handful of kids so you won't have the trouble to make your own and can stay with the booze."

"Never thought of fucking as some kind of trouble, though I wouldn't mind raising some snot-noses with the right woman, and I don't particularly care if they are all mine. That is..." He never got the chance to correct his blunder, as Éomer and Elphir doubled over with laughter.

Joining them, Erchirion poked his forefinger at Éomer's chest: "Well, you scoundrel of a king, find me a young widow with two or three kids and at least five mares and I'll settle in the Mark and start horse breeding."

Éomer tried in vain to pull a straight face. "Don't let your Gondorean fellow nobles hear that, or they'll develop their own theories about your studding abilities. You know the rumours quite well that circulated at Cormallen about the Rohirrim and their horses."

Erchirion flung up a hand. " Ah darn, I'd rather cover a mare than one of these prissy, conceited Gondorean prunes. Look at those _beauties_! They're all titles and propriety but there's no life in them!"

Elphir shook his head. "You're unfair, brother. There certainly are women like that, perhaps more in Gondorean noble society than in any other but you shouldn't just lump all women together. "

"I know," Erchirion interrupted, his face now serious, and shrugged. "I admit I'm even wronging them more than you perhaps think, as I don't believe that they want to be like that, it's society that makes them behave like that, and when it comes down to it, it's men that do it. Mind you, behind what we in Gondor call a woman's propriety there is eventually a man's property."

Éomer stared at him. Bantering, boozing and wenching Erchirion. He had not put thoughts like that past him.

Sighing Erchirion leaned himself back against the mast. "I could never do without willing women. I need them to feel alive, to feel my blood throbbing, to pick up the pieces of my own being after a fight. I'd just stop to exist without them."

His elder brother smiled barely discernibly. "What would we be fighting for anyway? Aren't we fighting to support and protect the ones we love?"

"Perhaps we are," Éomer shifted his weight, wrapping his arms around one bent knee, "but we are not the only ones fighting." He felt their gaze and looked up. "The people of the Mark believe that men and women fight their distinct battles for life. And as we protect them, women bring forth new life, their commitment not being less brave and worthy than that of any valiant warrior. Therefore we believe that women dying in childbed will be received in the halls of our ancestors with the same honour as a Rider, having died in battle."

Erchirion gave him a lopsided smile. "Bet you that with the horselords everything to be ending in battle, honour and death. They seem to have a soft spot for that."

But Elphir did not fall in with Erchirion's attempt to lighten the atmosphere."I have not been in the room when my wife gave birth to Alphros, but from the little I witnessed I dearly doubt that many men would have the stamina to go through that. And that was said to be a birth without any complications." His serious face looked even more grave than usually. "For what women do for us we should try our utmost to repay the debt."

They sat in silence for quite a time, until Elphir turning the tiller further left, demanded his brother to change the angle of the sail. Looking up, Éomer noticed, that Amrothos' boat had already changed direction and was now heading north, towards what seemed to be some blackish lumps of rocks in the middle of the bay.


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3**

Leaning against the gunwale, Éomer tilted his head back and closed his eyes. He felt at ease, managing at least for this moment to lock away that thin hassling voice of mistrust in the darkest corner of his mind. It had not been him, they had been talking about. It was so simple. But why had he believed something like that even for one moment?

He felt irked, having to admit that these negotiations had worn him out worse than any battle. He had taken every chance to prepare himself but still not felt up to it, having never been a man of many words. He had not thought himself skilled enough to face those masters at twisting words, thus obfuscating their meanings, using them as both, sling and dagger. And yet he had known that the trade agreement was a victory as important for his people as that of the Hornburg.

He breathed in deeply. He had managed but it had taken its toll on him. But that did not matter now. The negotiations had been successful, they would get enough grain from Gondor to get them through the next winter, and thus be able to keep their own as seeds, promising a better harvest next summer for being adapted to the climate of the Mark.

The climate of the Mark. He felt a chuckle rise in his chest. If it weren't for the salty tang in the air, he could well imagine lying somewhere on the plains of the Mark. Though the grass was definitely much softer. He shifted his weight as a rafter was digging into his shoulders. The soft breeze caressed his face. They would be making hay in the East-Emnet now, the aftermath, mostly needed for cows and milking sheep in the coming snow-prone winter. He wished he could send them some weather like this. Opening his eyes, he looked up into the immaculate sky. No clouds to disturb the brilliant blue, just some gulls hovering overhead.

"You'll better watch out." Erchirion, who had changed places with Elphir and was now sitting at the tiller, pointed at the gulls. "If these shite-hawks drop their legacy into your eyes you may well turn blind."

Éomer sat up. "I know. We have some kind of them in the fens of the Entwash."

"Really?" Elphir's voice sounded uncommonly lazy. Sitting on a coil of rope, he was resting against the side of the boat, obviously at peace with himself. "Didn't even know they were going that far inland."

Éomer shrugged. "It's one of the smaller kinds, sporting black heads at breeding season, well, and that's what we call them: black-headed gulls."

Elphir chuckled. "See, Erchirion, if you go to Rohan you won't even have to go without them. There will always be something to remind you of Dol Amroth."

"Oh, I'd truly miss gull-droppings!" Erchirion laughed. "Hey, Horselord, move over and take the tiller, I have to dilute Osse's waters."

Rising an eyebrow, Elphir remarked: "You shouldn't swig it like that, you know. Swig like a horse ..."

"Piss like a horse. Yes, I know, and I'm going to confirm it," Erchirion growled.

"Only that we normally serve the ale to the riders, not the horses." Grinning, Éomer went over to Erchirion and sat down at the tiller.

"Look, landlubber, you just take the tiller and take care that the sail doesn't start to flutter," Erchirion said, slapping the polished beam." If it does, you just bear away a bit."

"What?" Éomer looked uncomprehending.

"You'd better explain it to him," Erchirion grunted and stalked away to the other side of the sail.

His brother shook his head. "It's easy, Éomer. You simply keep the tiller as it is, I suppose that will just be fine. But if the sail goes slack or flutters you pull her a bit more to the lee, that is you move the tiller into the direction from which the wind is blowing. In our case that's to your left, or as a sailor would say: port side. The boat will turn right then, that is starboard, and the sails will billow again."

"Quite a day for languages," Éomer muttered, "first swearwords in Quenja, and now sailors' bafflegab."

Elphir just smiled assuringly. "Don't worry, you needn't understand, you'll just be fine."

After a while, Erchirion came back, tying the laces of his trousers. "The only thing you have to really keep in mind on a boat is, whatever you want to go outboard, throw it out at the lee side."

Éomer grinned. "Mind you, with the constant winds of the plains we know that in the Mark. As it is, we even have a saying based on it."

"Have you?" Again that risen eyebrow of Elphir's.

"Yep. Piss against the wind and you're in for a shower."

Erchirion snorted with mirth. "Universal wisdom in troubled times and windblown areas."

Still chuckling, he stepped across Elphir's outstretched legs to take the tiller back from Éomer. They were now approaching Tol Cobas, and Éomer wondered how they were to get ashore, as the whole island seemed to consist of tall black rock, rising in steep columns out of the bay. Streaks of white painted the ledges that jutted into the air high above sea level.

Seeing Éomer's doubtful gaze, Elphir explained: "We are approaching Tol Cobas from the south-east. There the cliffs are more than a hundred feet high, but they get lower towards the north till they rise little more than three to five feet out of the water at high tide. The rocks there form a bay, a nice sandy cove. We'll pass the island on it's eastern side and make straight for that cove."

"See that white streaks?" Erchirion asked, pointing at the rocks. "Murres' shite."

"Murres?" Éomer asked.

"Special kind of seabirds, black with a white breast and rather short wings; quite different from those elegant gulls. They breed in thousands on Tol Cobas, and in early summer you have to stop your ears if you come here." Erchirion gave a strangled kind of snuffle before he continued. "And blimey, they do stink! You're lucky to come after they've left, though seeing their young jumping off the cliff, even before they can fly, is quite a sight."

"Jumping off the cliff?" Éomer frowned. Surely Erchirion was pulling his leg.

But Elphir affirmed his brother's tale. "The Murres live on the open sea and swim and dive perfectly, but they are very poor flyers. When their young are about three weeks old they follow their parents out into the open sea, and as they don't even have feathers at that age they just jump off the cliff when the parents call them from the surface. Normally it happens on some windless day, right before dusk turns into night, to keep the little ones save from the big gulls."

Éomer felt himself looking at the jagged cliffs with quite a different eye now. How many things there were in this Middle Earth, he had never heard of?

When they got into the lee of the rocks, the sails suddenly started to flutter, and Elphir got up to tighten the ropes, thus adjusting the sails. Turning to Erchirion, he jerked his head at the cliffs. "Don't take her too close, I'm not in the mood to row her up to the cove."

"What makes you think I am?" Erchirion jabbed back, before he added, scanning the sea ahead of them: "Our pirates have already reached the northern cape."

Amrothos' boat was rounding the northern end of the island and disappeared out of sight.

Though their speed was somehow reduced in the lee of the island, they soon reached the lower northern shore and turned into the bay. Two semicircles of low rock engulfed it nearly totally, as if in a loving hug, leaving just some yards of water between their northern ends, wide enough for a boat to sail into the cove without any problem. While the sea around them up to now had seemed some strange and fathomless kind of green, here in the sheltered and shallower bay, it gleamed in an almost incredible light blue, until it changed into a shimmering turquoise, where the waters lazily touched the pale sand of the beach.

Amrothos had jumped into the shallow water, a rope over his shoulder, and was pulling his boat further up the beach, before tying the rope around one of the many black outcrops, the beach was strewn with. Wading back to the boat, he took a bundle of things his sister handed him, before she lowered herself into the water, a quite big bag slung across her shoulder and, to Éomer's ultimate surprise, wearing some kind of sailor's trousers like those he he had seen on the men of the wharfs' quarters, ending mid-calf and leaving the ankle exposed.

Erchirion's nudge demanded his attention, and soon he found himself wading towards the shore, carrying a provision basket and the inevitable wineskin, while Erchirion was pulling the boat. The water did just reach above his knee, and though it felt rather warm, it was refreshing to splash through it.

"Watch out," Elphir's voice came from behind, "there are sea urchins, mostly near the rocks. They aren't poisonous, but they can cause festering wounds if you step on them."

What in Bema's name was he referring to? Éomer waited for Elphir to catch up.

"Those little black balls." Elphir indicated towards one of the dark spots on the ground, Éomer had taken for pebbles. Now, at a closer look, he could see the spikes, covering the entire orb. He could well imagine that stepping on them would be far from comfortable.

"What are they?" he curiously asked.

"Some kind of animals. There are even edible ones. Oh well, and there are poisonous ones as well, though not in this bay." Seeing the slightly disgusted expression on Éomer's face, Elphir smiled. "Don't worry, we're not after urchins today. We'll go to catch spiny lobsters near the western shore, and I'm absolutely sure you will like them."

Meanwhile Amrothos and Lothíriel had dropped their loads near one of the bigger boulders further up the beach and were busy to put up an awning with the help of the equipment Amrothos had been carrying. "Otherwise we would be as done as the roasted lobsters after a while," he told Éomer with a wide grin.

His sister laughed. "Roth, you have to catch them first, before you can start roasting them." She spread out a mat, made of some kind of reed and motioned Éomer to place the basket and the wineskin in the shade of the rock.

As soon as Erchirion had tied up the second boat, he and Elphir seized two containers, that looked to Éomer like a mixture between a bag and a net and hurried the other two men to get going. They went over to the western shore and climbed the relatively low ridge. On the seaward side it plunged down a little deeper, now at low tide, and before them stretched a large platform of uneven blackish rock, strewn with boulders like the beach in the cove, here and there spotted with algae in different shapes and shades of green and brown. The whole surface was criss-crossed with cracks and crevices still filled with water, and everywhere large shallow pools glinted in the sun, reminding them that soon the sea would claim its territory back again.

The descent to this platform was not easy, as the rock was slippery, and when they were down, the uneven surface did not look inviting. Immediately the brethren stripped and put their clothes on top of one of the boulders, the surface of which had been dried by the sun and the wind. Éomer followed their example, when his gaze fell on his friend. He had seen Erchirion naked before, but that had been in spring at Cormallen, bathing together in the river. Now, after several sunny months on the coast, most of his skin was tanned and displayed various shades, from the dark bronze of his face and lower arms to the rosy white of his buttocks.

Éomer couldn't help but smirk, but then Amrothos' snigger caught his ear. "Blimey, Éomer, you look like a mealworm. Think we should better hurry up, before your horselordship gets a sunburn and keeps you from sitting that ugly nag of yours."

They walked over the rippled and cracked moist black plain, carefully crossing some steep but narrow fissures and wading through the tepid water of some pools till they reached one of the bigger crevices, more than ten yards wide, and Amrothos and Erchirion climbed into it, taking one of the nets with them. The water was nearly up to their shoulders. Carrying the net between them they dived, searching the notches and cracks of the rock, till they obviously found what they were looking for. Letting go of the net, Amrothos moved some stones out of the way and then reached for the first prey. He came back to the surface, grinning triumphantly, holding it up over his head.

Éomer was dumbfounded. The thing looked like some kind of oversized crayfish, being at least one foot long, but instead of pincers it bore two long antennae. What surprised him the most though, was the strange rasping sound the animal made. Erchirion held the net open for his brother to stuff the lobster in, and then they continued their quest further down the crevice.

"Come on, lets try our luck. Where there is one, there likely are more to be found." Éomer felt Elphir nudge his ribs slightly, and then they followed the others into the water. After about an hour they had caught six spiny lobsters, and Elphir urged them to get back to the island, lest the incoming flood make their retreat too difficult.

Erchirion was grinning from ear to ear. "Roasted spiny with garlic sauce, there's nothing like it!"

"Sure," Amrothos quipped, "though you'll have to refrain from kissing the wenches for at least two days cause you'll stink of garlic like some Umbarian gutter sweep."

"Pha, it is worth it. And anyway, you can always find one who has also eaten garlic, and therefore won't notice."

Shuffling through one of the slightly deeper puddles, Éomer turned his head to join in the banter, when suddenly a stinging pain pierced his right foot. He yelled in surprise and pain, pulling up his foot to have a look what might have caused it. There, right underneath the notch between his big toe and his ball of the foot, a small, prickly orb had got stuck. One of those blasted sea urchins!

He angrily shook his foot and managed to dislocate the urchin, hurling it back into the water, before one of the brother could interfere.

"Crap!" Erchirion looked worried. "You shouldn't have kicked it off. Now there is a bloody chance that you still have some broken spikes stuck in your toe, and it's a dratted job to get them out in one piece."

"Stop wailing," Amrothos barged in. "I'm sure Loth has some needle for just that purpose in her satchel, as it is normally your lot to step on the little buggers." Turning to Éomer, he demanded to see the foot, and having examined the toe he nodded. "There are at least three spikes in there. You'd better lean on Erchirion and try to only touch the ground with your heel, lest they break or dig deeper into your flesh."

Cursing, Éomer grabbed Erchirions shoulder and hobbled towards the cliff, while Amrothos and Elphir went ahead, carrying the nets containing the lobsters. When he finally reached the boulder they had left their clothes on, it proved quite a task, to get into his trousers without his foot touching the cloth, and while climbing up the ridge, it was simply impossible to avoid his toes touching the ground. When at long last they reached the sand of the cove, his forefoot was throbbing in a quite disturbing way, and he frowned at the thought of having to walk over to their camp.

Lothíriel seemed to have lit some campfire further down from the awning from pieces of driftwood and was now standing beside it, talking with her brothers. Erchirion gave him an encouraging slap on the shoulder and told him to move on. But just as they were about to start for the last leg, Lothíriel motioned them to wait and picking up her satchel came over to them.

"Sit down and let me have a look," she told him squarely, and when he obeyed, she sat down on the ground opposite him and put his injured foot on her bent knee without further ado.

"There are three spikes in your big toe and two more in the ball of your foot," she announced after having examined his foot thoroughly. "They are embedded in the calluses though, and perhaps I'll be able to get them out without you even noticing it. What might be quite painful are those two spikes in the notch of your toe, as the skin is rather delicate there."

What a mess! Eomer felt utterly embarrassed. Of all things this had to happen to him after Elphir's warning.

Sauntering up to them, Amrothos looked over Lothíriel's shoulder. "You'd better take a planer to his soles, sister. That horselord has nearly as much horn under his feet as his horse."

Not even bothering to look up, she snubbed him. "Just be a good boy, Roth. Go and play with some dead fish."

With a nonchalant shrug Amrothos returned to the campsite, Erchirion following in his trail, and Éomer found it difficult to repress the wish to set the youngest of Imrahil's son's on a pile of urchins, preferably the poisonous ones.

When he looked up, he found Lothíriel gazing quizzically at him. "Don't mind him, I know he can be a nuisance, but I think it is somehow his way to show concern. Though he is right that you do have some magnificent calluses under your feet. Perhaps you should walk barefoot now and then."

"I see," Éomer answered with a wry smile. "I just don't know what my Riders would make of it if I rode bootless into battle. It might as well somehow derogate my riding abilities."

"Word-twister!" she snorted, though her eyes sparkled with laughter. "There certainly must be opportunities to forego heavy boots, even in Rohan."

"Oh, there certainly are, I can well imagine to abstain from them at council meetings, and welcoming Guests of State would doubtlessly provide a further occasion for the King of the Mark to display bare feet."

Now she openly chortled. "I'd exceedingly like to be present as the barefooted King of Rohan receives the dignified ambassadors of Gondor."

"I'll be glad to satisfy your curiosity, if you my Lady, would be leading that mission, giving a likewise display of your feet."

To his surprise she turned serious immediately, averting his eyes. _Blasted Gondorean propriety!_ _What line was it now, he had overstepped?_

As if she had guessed his thought, she looked at him and slightly shook her head. "As much as I would like to join in that prank, there are certain things no Gondorean noblewoman should dare to do."

He needed all the self-restraint he could muster to stop himself from snorting. What a hypocritical society. They obviously did not mind their maidens display their tits to a point, nothing much was left to imagination, but to show a naked foot probably would cause a medium scandal. But that was nothing to be discussed with Imrahil's daughter, unless he was desperate to prove his reputation as some uncouth northern barbarian.

As if to avoid any further discussion, Lothíriel concentrated on the treatment of his foot. Extracting a thin silver needle from some small piece of cloth, she bent on the task to remove the spikes. As she had said, most of them did not cause any problem, and he did not feel more than a slightly unpleasing pressure as she drove the needle into his sole, but things changed completely as she started to work on the fragments in the notch.

_Bema's balls! Was that woman ramming that needle right into his bones? _He unintentionally jerked his foot back, and she looked up.

"I'm sorry, I should have warned you, before I started on those."

Embarrassed he shook his head. "You told me it might be nasty, and it can't be helped anyway. It was my own stupidity to step on that thing. Elphir had even told me before to be careful."

The princess gave a soft chuckle. "Elphir is the only person I know, never ever to have stepped on an urchin. Perhaps they avoid him, because they are afraid he will give them a lecture."

The image of Imrahil's eldest, standing in the shallow waters of the bay, reprimanding the sea urchins, brought the grin back to Éomer's face, though his mirth did not last long, as Lothíriel motioned him that she was about to continue his treatment. He set his teeth and watched, as she continued her interrupted work with nimble fingers. The spikes had broken and she needed several attempts to dig every single piece out of his throbbing foot. When she finally set aside the needle he realised that he had been holding his breath. She bent his toe back to have a last check, and with surprise Éomer noticed the typical calluses on her fore- and middle finger. An archer!

"Well, that was that, my lord." She put his foot on the ground and busied herself, tucking the needle away. "It's bleeding a bit at the moment, but if you leave the foot uncovered for a while it will be alright. I'll send you some light shoes once we are back, so you can leave your boots off for a while, but you should bathe it anyway and apply some ointment. Now I'm afraid you are in for some more hobbling, but you should not use your toes until the blood has dried."

Tucking her satchel under her arm, she stood, and Éomer did likewise, awkwardly balancing on one foot. Putting his heel to the ground, he managed a bow. "Thank you, my Lady, for the convincing demonstration of your skilfulness."

"You're more than welcome." A slight bow of the head, and then she turned and walked towards their camp. Limping behind, he watched the ground carefully to avoid stubbing his already damaged toe, and therefore nearly bumped into Erchirion, who had come up to him and now offered his help.

Éomer shook his head and hobbled on stubbornly, the chuckling Erchirion by his side. When they reached the awning, Éomer sat down in the shade, while Erchirion went over to the campfire, that had burnt low in the meantime. A grill had been stuck up on some stones, and Amrothos picked the three biggest lobsters and quickly killed them, stabbing his dagger into their heads, before preparing them to be put on the grill over the hot embers.

Rubbing his hands with glee, Erchirion came to sit besides Éomer. "Now it's just wait and slaver in anticipation."

He reached for his half empty wineskin and took a sound gulp, before offering it to Éomer. "It's lukewarm, but still better than ginger tea."

His sister huffed and turned to rummage through the contents of her big bag. "Amrothos brought some wine, so there is no need to complain," she stated, arranging a number of little well closed jars and dishes on the mat, together with three flat loafs of wheat bread and an assortment of fruit.

Elphir brought forth some cups and wooden plates from the bag he had been carrying, and soon their makeshift table was laid in a quite appealing way. The only problem for Éomer was now, that sitting cross-legged made his injured toe throb painfully, and he could not well stretch his leg, as the mat lay in front of him. Moving farther to the left edge of it, he finally found a way to stretch his leg in an acceptable way, well out of the space the food was displayed. Erchirion's impatience was funny to behold, and Amrothos, in his role of cook, made the most of teasing his voracious brother.

Finally the lobsters were done and with his typical silent smile Elphir, carrying the biggest one of them on one of the wooden plates, came over to sit on Erchirion's right side, placing the plate on the mat in front of him. "Here Brother, indulge your passion!"

With a growl of pleasure Erchirion drew his dagger and chopped the reddish shell open, before tearing out a big chunk of the meat. Dunking it into one of the jars, he thoroughly covered it in viscid garlic-sauce and then popped it into his mouth, rolling his eyes delightedly.

Laughing Amrothos let himself drop at Elphir's side, putting the plate he had been carrying between them. "Have your knife ready, Brother, to defend this hapless spiny from that glutton on your left."

In the midst of their laughter Éomer suddenly realised, that the princess was still standing in front of the awning, carrying the third lobster, and the only space left in the shade was the one between Erchirion and himself. He sensed her hesitating for a blink, then she set her shoulders and made to pass behind him, stepping over his awkwardly outstretched leg.

"We'd better share this, as there is no chance my dear brother would leave you anything but the shells." Adroitly she cut the lobster open, and offered Éomer a piece of the meat. "Try the first bite without any sauce and decide then, what you would like to go with it."

Gingerly he took the meat and put it into his mouth. It tasted delicious, a bit like crayfish, though less fatty. Obviously some sauce to go with it would make sense. With an encouraging nod Lothiriel arranged a choice of sauces in front of him, explaining the ingredients, and then left him to it. He sampled one after the other, spread on the tasty meat, savouring the soft white bread in between. Only when he had tried every single dressing in front of him did he look up and had to bite his lip to prevent himself from laughing out loudly.

The princess of Dol Amroth sat beside him, one knee pulled up to her chest, the other bent beside her, a chunk of bread in one hand and a piece of lobster meat, dripping with garlic sauce in the other, munching contentedly, her stuffed cheeks reminding him of the hamsters in the plains of the East Emnet. She seemed so much alive... Where was last night's courtly lady? Where the aloofness? Melted away in sun and salty wind. He felt his inside growing warm. This was life... and life was good.

She swallowed and bent forward, to put the piece of meat into her mouth without the garlic sauce soiling her garments, when suddenly their eyes met. With an impish grin she stuffed her mouth and then shoved the rest of the lobster over to him. A tiny drop of the viscid dressing had escaped her mouth and fascinated he watched it slowly trickling down her chin. Realising what he was looking at, she swept the drop up with the back of her hand. "I'm afraid I'm worse than Erchirion, at least as far as lobster is concerned. Finish it up. I'm not hungry any more, I was just eating for pleasures sake," she said, still grinning happily.

Guffawing Erchirion slung his arm around his sister's shoulder. "Loth, never forget, the things we do for pleasure are the best things of our lives."

Beside him Elphir emphatically cleared his throat, and in an instant the siblings' mirth died down. Still hugging his sister, Erchirion gave her a worried look. "Loth..."

"Never mind brother." She patted his large hand. "You are right, and let the others say what they want."

Her face now was serious, though not displaying the cool politeness Éomer had seen the night before but rather some kind of calm and stubborn sorrow. How could it be that he felt suddenly bereft? With a pang he realized that he wanted her smile back, that reckless grin and the tiny drop, tickling down her chin.

"Peace, Lothíriel." Elphir's voice was even as always. "I did not mean to reprimand anyone. I just thought to keep Erchirion from a more detailed demonstration on the subject."

"Oh, for Uinen's sweet mercy, Elphir!" Lothíriel threw her hand up in frustration. "What harm would have been done, even if he had? We are among family, and..." With a jolt she came to a halt, realizing her blunder. Amrothos started to sicker, as his sister blushed furiously.

_One word, and he'll throttle that imbecile! _It took Éomer some effort to control his rising anger. "Your sister is right," he finally addressed Amrothos, "for at least in Rohan we would call men who shared such dangers as Erchirion and I have, brothers, and I for one have even more reason to do so, as he received that gash across his forehead, stepping in to save me from being hacked to pieces in front of the Black Gate."

All eyes were now on him, except Erchirion's, who sat, looking at his large hands, his bulky shoulders slightly hunched, while a slight blush was spreading over his face. Out of the corner of his eye Éomer saw Lothíriel taking her brother's hands, and facing Elphir, he continued. "And Erchirion is right, too. The things we do for pleasure may not always be sophisticated or wise, but sometimes rather simple or even primitive, yet, if they bring us pleasure without damaging anyone else's joy, I would deem them sacred, for they strengthen our hearts to cope with the tasks of life."

With a slight bow of the head Elphir acknowledged Éomer's statement, and Amrothos raised his cup. "Well, if that is settled now, let's bring out a toast. To pleasure!"

"No!" Éomer's voice sounded even sterner than he had intended. Amrothos sat, the cup still raised and looked at him in disbelief. Holding the younger man's gaze, Éomer raised his own cup. "No, Amrothos, not to pleasure. To life!"

Amrothos did not avert his eyes, now looking sober and serious, and then nodded approvingly. "You're right, Éomer. To life!"

Lothíriel reached for her cup. "To life!" As everybody raised their cups and drank, Éomer saw the smile slowly creeping over her face, till her features seemed to glow with some inner light.

_Woman, a treasure for your thoughts. _

As if she had sensed his emotion she turned to him. "That was a most fitting toast, Éomer King. And the cups we raised to it were well representing the differences and oddities of life: rich wine, ginger tea and lukewarm ale."

Annotations:

Tol Cobas: In her "Atlas of Middle -Earth" Karen W. Fonstad gives the name of Cobas Haven for the Bay of Dol Amroth and therefore I simply called the island (which is not given in any maps I knew)Tol Cobas.


	4. Chapter 4

I would like to thank all those who read and reviewed or put up an alert of some kind for this story or humble author, as well as those of you who added this to your favourite stories.

I must admit that I was quite surprised at the large feedback, and surely you all made me very happy. But I'd also want to say a thank you to all those "lurkers in the woods", and I hope that you enjoy my version on what seems to be a lot of people's favourite couple.

**Chapter 4**

"Just look, how I do it." Lothíriel busied herself with the lobster's legs, breaking them at the joints, before inserting a gadget that looked like a hairpin to Éomer into the hollow. With an adept twist and a jerk she extracted the meat from the shell. "It tastes slightly different, a bit stronger somehow."

He took the tiny piece and popped it into his mouth. The meat was more juicy than the main body of the lobster had been, tasting very similar to the crayfish he knew from the streams and tarns of the Mark.

She grinned at his approving mien and handed him the gadget. "Have a try now." When he took it with a rather doubtful look, her grin turned definitely mischievous. "Yes, it is a hairpin, but it won't bite you."

She watched him discerningly, as he managed to pick the meat of another leg. "Add a drop of lemon, but be cautious not to squeeze too much on it," she advised him, subjoining with a wry smile: "I never expected such large hands to be that deft."

"I have some experience in carving, perhaps that helps." He carefully added some lemon and was amazed at how much it highlighted the taste. Just as he was about to tell her, Erchirion's pleading voice caught her attention.

"Loth, could you please..." With a sheepish look on his face Erchirion shove the remainders of his lobster towards his sister. She rolled her eyes. "Yes, I will." Turning to Éomer she pointed a finger at the lobster legs in front of him. "As you seem to be capable, I'll leave you to fend for yourself and do a merciful job, assisting that big oaf on my right."

Erchirion took his sister's scolding with unperturbed cheerfulness, and for some time they sat in silence, extracting the tasty meat, until Amrothos served the next three lobsters that had been roasting in the meantime.

Feeling all more or less sated, they decided to share one and take the other two with them. Amrothos cut the lobster up, and having taken his fill, passed the pieces on. While Elphir was choosing a piece, Éomer noticed that Amrothos drizzled some darkish red sauce on his portion and passed the jar to Erchirion, who sat waiting, a piece of lobster in his large hand. Erchirion spread the sauce liberally on the meat and then chewed it with obvious delight. Éomer reached for the jar, and following Erchirion's example, dunked a portion of meat in the sauce. Just as he was about to stuff it into his mouth, a hand clamped down on his wrist.

Irritated Éomer looked at the princess, who was still holding his wrist. Erchirion shot the piece of lobster in Éomer's hand one short look and chuckled. "Well, Éomer, I guess our sister just saved you from suffocation."

In a tone that gave away her amusement, Lothíriel turned to Éomer."You'd better give that piece to Erchirion. He has a stomach like boiled leather and will be able to down it without suffering any serious damage."

Seeing his incomprehension, she explained: " It's chillies sauce, a speciality from Harad, very tasty if you use it sparingly, but it will certainly burn holes into your gullet, if you gobble it down like that." Without further ado, she took the meat out of Éomer's hand and popped it into Erchirion's mouth, before reaching for another piece of meat. "Let me show you, how to relish it."

He was surprised, how much he actually enjoyed to literally have things taken out of his hands.

Having spread the meat with garlic sauce she balanced it on her palm, putting a thin slice of peach she had obviously cut as some kind of dessert for herself beside it and dribbled just a few drops of the reddish sauce on it. Stacking the fruit on top of the meat she motioned Éomer to open his mouth, and gingerly shoved the morsel it. "Chew carefully."

He did as she had told him, tasting the strange mixture of tender meat, soaked with garlic and juicy fruit, when suddenly the spiciness of the chillies assailed his taste buds.

"Keep chewing, and add some bread if it is too hot." He felt slightly embarrassed under her watchful eyes, but obeyed without reply, and slowly, as the cool juiciness of the peach mixed with the heat of the sauce, he realized the taste of the spices blossoming in his mouth to a strange but exciting sensation. He finally swallowed and could not help but feeling amazed. His tongue and his lips were prickling, and when he breathed he felt the air singe his palate.

_Bema, how could Erchirion scoff that without flames blazing out of his ears?_

He reached for his cup, but again Lothíriel halted his hand. "Wait a moment till you drink. Any liquid will amplify the burning." She handed him a bite of bread, and obediently he munched the soft white morsel till the itching in his mouth somehow abated.

"You are such a spoil sport, Loth! Why didn't you let our Horseking do the fire-breather if he wanted to." Amrothos' voice sounded peeved, and Éomer saw Lothíriel press her lips together.

"Watch it, Roth, or she'll skin you alive." Elphir's voice sounded even as always, but obviously his younger brother caught the warning.

With a shrug he reached for a second help of lobster, when Erchirion remarked: "By the way, what do you make of our dear brother Amrothos' avoiding this delicious garlic sauce?"

Elphir shot him a warning glance, but Lothíriel, her face all mock innocence, chipped in in a nonchalant tone: "But Erchirion, don't you know how much the Lady Aimenel despises garlic? And her husband not less. How unbefitting it would be, if he found a certain whiff on his honourable spouse after her encounter with our dear brother."

"Bull's eye!" Erchirion commented, and if Elphir had wanted to say anything it went under in the general mirth.

Éomer bowed slightly to Lothíriel. "I for one have to admit that I'm exceedingly thankful that you stopped me from incinerating myself, and it is surely beyond my comprehension, how your brothers devour these liquid embers like that."

"Was it that terrible?" Tilting her head she looked at him with an exploratory mien.

"No, not at all," he assured her, "Quite on the contrary it was rather nice, especially with the peach in between."

"Oh, do you like peaches?" Her voice sounded ingenuously surprised. "I always thought warriors were all for meat and booze."

"No, Lady. To tell you the truth, I highly enjoy any kind of fruit and prefer a good cheese to most kinds of meat. We don't have peaches in Rohan but I certainly could get used to them."

"Well, if you don't have them in your own country you should grasp the opportunity to have them while you can." With that she bent forwards, swept up one of the peaches from the mat and started to peel it. Cutting the fruit into halves, she turned to Éomer to hand him the juicy pieces, but halfway they slipped from her fingers and she jerked forward to catch them before they touched the ground.

All of a sudden Éomer found her lithe body more or less in his lap, as she bent in an awkward angle, holding half a peach in each hand. Her headscarf had become askew, exposing the creamy skin of a slender neck and for a split second he found his senses assailed with the temptingly mingled scents of ripe luscious peaches and sun-warmed female skin. He gasped, as desire surged through his body, leaving his throat dry and causing his groin to tighten. Kicking himself mentally, he slowly pulled up his right knee to prevent further embarrassment.

_What in Bema's name had got into him?_

Blissfully ignorant of his precarious position, Lotíriel propped herself up and offered the fruit to him with a giggle: "Here you are, my lord. Watch it, that dratted thing seems to be alive."

Éomer groaned inwardly. _Woman, if you knew how much alive that dratted thing was!_

He had better asked Erchirion to accompany him on a trip down to that tavern in the harbour quarters tonight, the Swan Knights had been bragging about at Cormallen. He gingerly took one half and motioned her to eat the second half, not yet trusting his voice. The fruit was that mellow, it nearly melted under the mere pressure of his touch. He took a careful bite and instinctively bent forward to keep the juice from dripping on his tunic.

"See what I mean?"Grinning happily, the princess took a healthy bite of her own half. Fortunately nobody else seemed to pay much attention, as her brothers also busied themselves with the remaining peaches, so Éomer slowly started to eat his piece of fruit, carefully avoiding to look at her and concentrating to regain his composure.

The peach truly was delicious, and being left on his own, he found himself having calmed down when finally he was savouring the last bite. His fingers were sticky with the sweet juice and he wondered, what Imrahil's offspring would say, if he licked it off, but he dismissed it at once as not being appropriate in a lady's presence and instead stealthily wiped his hand on his trousers.

Looking up, he found the lady in question, licking the side of her hand with the content look of the cat that caught the canary.

Feeling his gaze on her she startled and blushed. "Not very ladylike, I know, but I do love fruit."

"So do I," he assured her, adding with a slightly sheepish smile:" I'm afraid as far as fruit is concerned, I'm worse than Erchirion with lobsters."

"Yep! You should have seen him at Cormallen, sister," Erchirion joined in their talk. "He was always irresolute, whether to feed the last apple to his mount or to gobble it down himself."

"You do the horselord wrong, he certainly would have shared with that big, ugly nag of his," Amrothos added, and Lothíriel turned to Éomer, cocking her head.

"Is that so, my lord?"

"No, certainly not," Éomer replied, "If there had been only one apple left, it would doubtlessly have gone to my charger."

"And most likely he would have deserved it," Amrothos admitted to Éomer's utter surprise. "One of those horses saved my life, when I went down in that melee on the Pelennor."

"How?" Éomer asked, now truly intrigued.

"Well, when you launched that mad charge towards the Harlond, I had been only short behind with a group of the Swan Knights, and being fresh, our horses carried us forwards into your rearguard. When my mount was hacked down below me, I just managed to keep free of the carcass but was not able to stand, as the slash that had ripped the gelding's flank had caught my thigh as well, right above the knee.

I just expected to be trampled to death, if not been hacked to pieces first by those Southrons, but suddenly one of the Rohirrim nudged his horse to stand over me, and there it stood, motionless like a statue, protecting my shattered frame from the onslaught of the battle around us, while its rider hewed left and right like a demented blacksmith. Never before have I seen such absolute reliance and collaboration between horse and rider.

Some of my own knights collected me soon afterwards, when there was a lull in the battle and I was carried to the Houses. I haven't seen neither horse nor rider again, as it took me weeks till I was back on my feet again." Finishing his tale, Amrothos gave one of his characteristic shrugs and reached for his cup.

Éomer was baffled. Was that Amrothos the nuisance, Amrothos the jester? He had known that Imrahil's youngest son had been wounded on the Pelennor but never heeded it overmuch. So many men had suffered likewise that day, so much danger had still lain before them, but now it felt strange to come to know he had participated in that frenzied charge.

_Death!_ He still heard the sound of his own desperate voice in his head, felt the bitterness of certain destruction in his mouth. _Death! _He had all but led Rohan's army into its fangs, and as it seemed Imrahil's reckless son, too.

"You're just a lucky beggar, Roth." Lothíriel's teasing voice pulled Éomer out of his brooding. "Mind you, if that horse had known, what a nuisance you can be, it would probably have stomped you to pulp."

"Thank you for your kind words, sister. I love you, too." Laughing Amrothos raised his cup to her.

Grinning back she rose and went over to rummage in her spacious bag. Finally she produced a pair of canvas shoes with soles of plaited straw and knelt on one knee to tie the long laces around her ankles.

Nicely cut ankles, clearly accentuated sinews, the dry muscles of a runner; Éomer definitely estimated what he saw. "You don't seem to take your own advice concerning wearing shoes too serious", he teased her, but she did not take the bait.

"I'm climbing up to the copse," she said, pointing up to the right side of the cliff. "I would not advise anyone to cross the sand up there barefoot at noon. It's burning hot."

Refilling his cup, Amrothos smirked at him. "Perhaps you should try it, Horseking. Would probably singe off even your callouses."

The scowl she shot her brother was quite impressive and Éomer fought to keep a straight face.

Squaring her shoulders, she turned her back on them. Éomer just sat and watched the slender, dark-clad figure stride across the beach. Her dark blue tabard hung almost to her knees, but as it was split at the sides up to just below her hips, it was blown aside when a sudden gust caught it, exposing a long and well-built thigh.

_Obviously a_ _horsewoman. _Unabashed he gloried in her sight, at the same time feeling relieved about the distance between them, as he could not subdue the familiar throbbing in his loins.

Without any doubt it had to be the tavern tonight.

Above the tideline the sand was rather coarse-grained and loose, with stony spaces in between, as the whole bay was gradually rising up to the black cliffs in the south of the island, displaying terraces of dark rock in regular intervals. While the lower parts near the water held no vegetation except some large clusters of knee-high sturdy plants, abundantly covered in blue and white blossoms, along some crags near the black columns of the cliff a quite dense grove of shrubs and gnarled trees, stunted by the persistent wind from the sea, covered the western part of the slope.

Moving with fast and graceful steps, the princess had reached the tideline and the loose ground made walking visibly difficult. Her steps were hampered by the sand that made her sink in ankle-deep with each step. Nevertheless she trudged on, not graceful now, but with obvious strength and determination that delighted Éomer even more than her smooth movements before. Reaching the first rocky step, she climbed it with impressive energy. She was splendid, her gait reminding him of a promising filly's.

_Bema's balls!_ With a sudden jolt he realized what he was doing: Ogling Imrahil's daughter. Where had his self-command gone? Overcome by embarrassment he averted his eyes and found his gaze caught by Amrothos, who was sitting at the other end of the mat, watching him intensely with those all knowing jackdaw eyes of his.

He mentally cursed himself. Any retreat would be useless now, so Éomer met the younger man's gaze with challenging stubbornness. Only now he perceived that the others had disappeared. When had that happened? How could it be that he had not noticed?

Éomer's mind raced, while he stared unblinking into Amrothos' pale eyes. And slowly a subtle smile crept into them, while the corners of Amrothos' mouth curled.

Éomer was flabbergasted. He blinked in disbelief. No, it doubtless was a smile, not one of Amrothos' usual smirks. "You seem to be quite mesmerised by the view, Éomer." Amrothos voice was absolutely uncommitted.

"You're quite an attentive observer." Éomer managed to keep his voice even and carefully casual. There was no use denying obvious facts.

Amrothos' smile deepened, his eyes sparkling with mischief now: "As long as it stays at watching, no harm is done, don't you agree?"

For a fleeting moment Éomer thought, what the handsome face of Imrahil's youngest son would look like with a multiple fractured nose, but then reason kicked in, and he unclenched his fist. What would he have done, finding some man staring at Éowyn like that? Things could have developed far worse. Utterly sobered he nodded his acknowledgement of Amrothos' proposition.

That settled, Amrothos started to collect the scattered jars and platters in front of him. "Elphir and Erchirion went to check on the boats. The tide has advanced already, and as the wind is getting stronger, we'd better get going within the hour. Let's tidy up a bit, so we can start as soon as Lothíriel comes back."

Éomer bent forward to reach the jars in front of him, and strange enough he suddenly felt the throbbing pain in his toe, he had not felt during their meal and therefore simply forgotten in the meantime.

The two men busied themselves collecting the dinnerware, carefully piling the crockery and packing everything away in the various provision bags they had brought with them. They were just about shaking out the mat before rolling it up, when Elphir reappeared.

"We'll have quite a nice breeze on our trip back to Dol Amroth," he announced,. "We'd better head east first. That will provide some rather interesting sailing, what with broad reach. Though it might get a bit choppy when we veer south for Dol Amroth following the Ringló channel once we reach Aeglir Caragon, as we will be sailing against the incoming tide for at least some time, but then the tide will be turning soon, and that will warrant good speed, even if we'll have to beat about."

Aeglir Caragon was not really a name after Éomer's taste and the rest of Elphir's talk was nearly totally incomprehensible to him, but as Amrothos nodded his agreement, he decided to let it pass. There would be time enough to ask for explanations on the way back.

**Annotations:**

**broad reach:** (nautical term) sailing away from the wind but not straight down-wind

**beat about:** (nautical term) sailing a zig-zagging course to get to an up-wind destination

**Aeglir Caragon:** Ridge of the Rocky Spikes (Sindarin), at least according to my Sindarin dictionary and Grammar. **If you happen to know better, please feel free to tell me. **


	5. Chapter 5

Thank you so much for your encouraging comments. I have to admit I do like cliche-bashing, ;-) and I am intrigued by any kind of culture clash. Hope you will enjoy reading as much as I enjoyed writing.

**Chapter 5**

Looking around for Erchirion, to his amazement Éomer found the bulky warrior collecting the blue and white flowers growing right above the tideline, already carrying an immense bunch of them in his arms.

"What is he doing?" Though it was obvious, he couldn't keep from asking.

Elphir just shrugged. "Gathering sea-lavender. Our mother loves that flowers, as they remind her of her childhood on Tolfalas. They dry without losing their bright colours and therefore are liked as a cheerful decoration in wintertime."

Chuckling Amrothos added: "He's mother's good boy. Stuffing the whole cuddy any time we come here while they are flowering, even drinks up his ale before, so he can fold up the skin to gain more room."

Picking up the leftover lobster they had set aside, he looked at Éomer enquiringly. " Hey, Horselord, would you like one for your men? I'll take one for our parents, but I don't see why Erchirion should gobble down the other one, as he already had a complete one all to himself."

"Don't be unreasonable, brother." Elphir's usually calm voice was slightly on edge. "Erchi surely would not begrudge Éomer's guards the lobster." Turning to Éomer he continued: "But I could well imagine your men really might like to try it, as there certainly is nothing the like in Rohan."

"Well, we do have something similar: crayfish. Though they don't taste exactly the same. But my men will no doubt like it, and its size might even elevate Gondor's reputation in their eyes."

Discerning the badly hidden grin in Éomer's face, Elphir shot him a quick glance. "Why so?"

"Well," raising one hand, as if he wanted to rake it through his scarf-covered hair, Éomer explained: "Crayfish plays a quite prominent role in the traditions of the Mark. It is somehow seen as a token of fertility...or rather virility." He could not go on, because Amrothos was doubling over, chortling.

Elphir just raised a brow at his younger brother's mirth. "I see. Perhaps we should blame Amrothos' generally improper behaviour on too much lobster eating then."

"No brother, it's Erchirion who is devouring them like a starving warg." Amrothos stuffed the lobsters into one of the bags. "One more reason to keep him from guzzling this one too. We don't want the wenches to get too exhausted, do we?"

"Already packed?" Erchirion rounded the corner of the awning, his arms full of sea-lavender. "Well, let's just finish off the rest of the ale, so I can fold up the skin."

Guffawing Amrothos let himself fall back into the sand. "Blimey, he's so predictable!"

Erchirion just shrugged at his brother's antics. "I've done that for years now, so how much does it take to "predict" anything?

Still chuckling, Amrothos sat up again. "You know Erchi, you would be a success with the wenches in Rohan if they knew how many lobsters you manage to dispatch."

"How much wine have you had, Roth?" Erchirion seemed totally unconcerned, but Amrothos did not give up that easily.

"Just ask the Horseking," he insisted.

"I'm afraid the lobsters you ate here won't really help you to impress the girls in Rohan," Éomer explained laughingly, "nor your ability in eating them. First of all it's crayfish in the Mark, and then your success with the wenches will depend on your deftness at catching them... the crayfish I mean, not the girls."

By now all four men were laughing and finally Elphir asked the Rohir, whether he was joking. Éomer shook his head. "No, I'm totally serious. We even have a special festival in summer, celebrating crayfish catching. The young people go to the tarns and streams that night to catch crayfish."

"The young men you mean," Elphir interjected.

Éomer shook his head. "I certainly have enough Westron to express myself. The young people; that is lads _and_ lasses."

The three brothers looked at him dumbstruck, and Éomer continued grinning: "Well, once they have caught enough crayfish, they carry them home to the villages and a feast is held, with everybody eating crayfish, as it is believed to give health and virility for the whole year to come."

"I have the impression I would bloody much like those Rohirric traditions," Amrothos stated. "Sounds really promising. Do I guess right that they have a try if the crayfish work after the feast?"

"No," Éomer smirked, "not after the feast; on the way back from the tarns. If you still manage a cock stand after an hour waist-deep in icy water you certainly deserve a reward." Turning to Amrothos, his smirk deepened. "You are invited to find out on your own, but I'm afraid the lasses of the Mark don't fall for sweet words, they demand hard facts."

Now it was Erchirion's turn to guffaw, and Elphir shook his head in mock despair. "Éomer, I'm afraid you should take both of these imbeciles to Rohan and dunk them in some mountain stream till some wench takes pity on their shrivelled appendages."

"I would not mind taking them with me, but I can't guarantee for the girls' mercy. As a matter of fact with all the poison Saruman's creatures dumped in the streams and brooks of the Westfold, there is no crayfish at all left in many." All mirth now was wiped from Éomers face. "It worries my people greatly."

Elphir frowned. "Well, I can imagine that narrows the range of foodstuffs, and to forgo a festival like that specific one might be drab, but certainly it should not be the cause for serious problems and sorrow."

"And even without the festival," Amrothos chipped in,"I can't imagine the Rorirrim to stop bonking, just because one particular occasion for it has ceased to exist. They'll rather invent a new one."

Éomer shook his head. "You don't understand. Life in the Mark may be free and splendid, but it is also hard and unforgiving. We are farmers and herders, our very hearts and souls are interwoven with the land we live in, the land that nourishes our bodies. Fertility is something sacred to my people, and the fertility of the land and the herds reflects directly to our hearts. We see mating as the source of joy and strength, of life...a boon to be shared. And therefore the disappearance of the crayfish hurts us to the core. Crayfish is seen as some kind of a symbol, a token of life continuing. And given that, the poisoning of the waters cuts deeper into my people's existence than any sword or axe could reach. You may call it superstition, but it frightens them and sucks dry their vital force. That is far worse than the lack of grain and housing, it's the lack of virility, of life."

"I don't know, Éomer, perhaps if you set an example, I mean, get yourself a wife and produce some heirs and spares, your people will revive, too," Erchirion suggested, scratching his head. "As you are a belligerent crowd, leading from the front might do the job."

Éomer felt tension run through his body like some kind of cold flame. _There it was again! _How much he might love Erchirion, he was a Gondorean, and as such he was not able to comprehend what moved the Rohirrim. He just thought them strange, uncouth or at times funny.

"It might sound funny to you Gondoreans." Éomer could not help notice the frostiness in his own voice, but he was not going to let anyone smirk at his people, not even his friends and brothers in arms. "For us, as I myself am one of those uncouth Northerners you like to chuckle about, it is our tradition, our way of life, and Gondor had well remember what she owes the strength and dedication of Rohan's people."

Imrahil's sons reacted each in their distinct way: Elphir put on his diplomatic mien, giving away nothing of what he might think or feel, Amrothos, though sobered, looked straight at Éomer, his chin slightly pushed forward in some kind of challenge and Erchirion... Éomer nearly choked, when he saw Erchirion's reaction. Within the blink of an eye a multitude of contradicting emotions displayed themselves and then his face changed into a mask of granite, lips pressed into a thin line, jaws set, but his eyes, those lively brown eyes, inherited from his mother's side, for just a split second longer showed the heart-piercing hurt he felt at Éomer's harsh words, before they went cool and inscrutable.

"Peace, Éomer." Elphir was the first to speak again after some uncomfortable seconds of silence. "Nobody present would even think of disesteeming your people and what they did for Gondor. My brothers meant no harm, and you should know by now how much especially Erchirion admires them and their way of living."

Éomer turned his head, feeling even more embarrassed than before, when he had taken their banter for downright insult. He had hurt Erchirion, and he knew in his heart of hearts he had snapped, because Erchirion had been right, had said what was whispered and by some demanded aloud in the Mark: The King should set an example and assure the continuity of Eorl's line. It was paradoxical: He had rebuked his Gondorean friend for thinking too much like a Rohir.

And because Erchirion had touched a sore spot. He admittedly felt chased, cornered. Was enough not enough? Since his sixteenth summer, when he had joined Elfhelm's éored, he had given everything for the Mark, his youth, his strength, his blood. Had given it willingly and with a full heart. And as willingly he would have stayed Rohan's Third Marshall, but war and fate had catapulted him into a position he had never wanted, he tried to fill, out of duty and love for his people and country, and things were running well. But for all that, it seemed to him that whatever he did for Rohan, it would never be sufficient. The permanent nagging of his councillors, reminding him of his people's expectations wore him out, made him jumpy and aggressive. He would not allow his choice of a wife to be dictated by matters of politics... And he feared the day he would give in to the reasoning of the council, betraying his belief and that secret dream he had hidden in the depth of his heart all those years.

Reluctantly he turned to Erchirion. "I'm sorry, Erchirion, but you strummed exactly that chord my chief-councillor Eáldred has been harping for the last year. And I'm fed up with it to my back teeth."

"I didn't think about it, though I should have, with all our noble arse kissers parading their daughters in front of you," Erchirion sighed. "It just didn't come to my mind that the situation might be similar in Rohan."

"Similar but worse," Éomer huffed. "Being Queen in Rohan means to be ruling in the King's absence, and you can certainly imagine that it is a compelling temptation for any noble family to try and get one of their female members on the throne."

"Does not sound too appeasing,"Elphir remarked. "And I can well imagine that there are certain competing parties like there are in Gondor."

Éomer laughed mirthlessly. "Bet you there are. And whoever you chose, there will always be those who are not satisfied."

"Why not chose a wife from Gondor then?" Amrothos asked.

"To have the whole pack unite against her?" Éomer shook his head. "Being Queen demands a lot of any woman, and it would simply not be fair to drag some woman to Edoras without any knowledge of the tasks awaiting her. All those women here see the crown and imagine themselves admired as some decoration at the King's side. They don't see the responsibilities that position demands, besides providing an heir perhaps, and even that might put up some problem."

"Aren't you exaggerating a bit? How should it be a problem for any healthy woman to give birth to a child, be she from Gondor or from Rohan?" Amrothos looked totally unconvinced.

Éomer shrugged. "I'm just afraid to sire sickly children if I bedded a Gondorean woman."

"Could it be that you are just a tiny bit prejudiced and condescending?" Amrothos cocked his head, "challenge" written all over his face.

"Am I?" Éomer jeered. "Then tell me, Amrothos, what lasting passion can a woman evoke in a man, if he knows she only wanted him because of his position? What passion is he able to stir in her? Mind you, I'm not even talking about love, which I highly believe essential between spouses. Only mere plain passion. Where would that go during the long years of a loveless marriage? And how could any woman give birth to a healthy child without passion?"

Amrothos looked flabbergasted. "Well, I can surely understand you would not like to bed a woman you don't feel any passion for, but what has that to do with the child's health?"

Éomer blinked. Could it be that anyone in Middle Earth did not know about something that basic? Were they really that daft in Gondor?

"If a woman does not conceive in passion, the child will be sickly and whiny."

"What? Éomer, are you serious?" Elphir had somehow lost his countenance. "How could you blame such a thing on a child's mother? That's mere superstition!"

"Call it what you want, it is like that." Éomer was in no mood to give in. " And mind you, nobody blames anything on the mother, as we see it as the man's responsibility to give joy to his woman and rise her desire."

"Blimey, a man's life doesn't seem that easy in the Mark!" Amrothos' chortle roused Éomer's ire even further. Just as he was about to give a harsh reply, Elphir motioned to him and turning he saw the princess approach the awning. She had removed her headscarf and having knotted it into something like a bag, used it to carry something.

Noticing the tension, she stepped in for a direct confrontation. "What are you tussling about?" she demanded to know.

"Rohiric superstition concerning fertility," Amrothos answered to Elphir's dismay. "Quite an interesting topic."

"Oh, is it?" She seemed totally unagitated. "I can well imagine that for a horse breeding people fertility is quite important, and important things always call forth superstition."

_How very cultivated! _Éomer's foul mood did not abate the least. With some kind of perverted satisfaction he imagined how her composed facial expression would alter, if he told her that the Rohirrim believed that taking ones wife from behind, like a stallion covering a mare, would result in strong and healthy children.

His irritation must have shown on his face, for out of the corners of his eye he saw Erchirion's worried expression, and all of a sudden he realised he was holding her responsible for her brothers' ideas, blaming her for an attitude she had never shown to him. All he knew she was just trying to be friendly and save the situation. He felt the heat of a blush creep up his neck and averted his gaze, feeling he deserved to be kicked where it really hurt.

Sensing his uneasiness, Lothíriel turned to her brothers. "And around that interesting topic there certainly is enough superstition in Gondor as well, isn't it?"

Elphir seemed at least slightly alarmed. "Lothíriel, I think this is hardly a topic a lady... "

"Oh, forget it, Brother!" Giving her eldest brother a dismissive wave of her hand, she continued lecturing them: "Every midwife along the Falas would swear that women give birth easier with the incoming tide, and everyone believes that more children are born at spring-tide, when there is a full moon, though nobody can really prove it. It's just that the sea is so important for us. And like that every people in Middle Earth surely has some folk lore, no matter whether you call it lore, belief or superstition, that is deeply rooted in their way of life and the land that surrounds them."

She had spoken in that imperturbable but nevertheless determined way, only a woman that was certain of her opinion being valued would speak. The Lady of Dol Amroth, and no doubt.

Éomer could well imagine his counsellors, standing with gaping mouths. _Béma, that woman would shut up even Eáldred!_

"Anyway, whatever it is, it certainly is no reason to quarrel about and spoil a day like this. And mind you Brothers," her lips curved into a mischievous smile, "if you don't behave yourselves, you won't get any figs."

"Figs? Oh Loth, you surely won't disappoint your favourite brother, will you?" Making the most doleful puppy eyes, Amrothos approached his sister with suppliantly outstretched hands. Rolling her eyes in mock-disgust, she threw him a little green fruit which he caught deftly. Having given one to Elphir and Erchirion as well, she smilingly turned to Éomer, holding out a small pear-shaped fruit to him.

"Have you ever eaten figs?"

_Wood pears_, he thought without much enthusiasm. These little wild pears they collected in the autumn, hard as wood, and as tasteless, uneatable, unless cooked. Why did Amrothos make such a fuss about them?

Hesitantly he took the offered fruit and was greatly surprised, to find the surface yielding like soft leather. His puzzled look must have given him away, because the princess retrieved the fruit, nipped its peel with her fingernails, and tearing it apart, revealed the fleshy pink inside, dotted with uncounted minute spherical seeds, before handing it back to him, with what he only could describe as an encouraging smile.

Erchirion to his left was pulling the swelling flesh out of the fruit with his big teeth, a more than content expression on his face and even the normally composed Elphir seemed to enjoy the taste. Amrothos had already finished his one and ruthlessly dived for his sister's headscarf on the ground, that obviously held more fruit.

Without any hesitation Lothíriel stepped on his greedily outstretched hand. "I brought two for each of you, and I will distribute them justly."

Eomer had to admit he felt a definite satisfaction at the sight of the princess' foot on her brother's hand, though he perfectly well knew that due to the straw sole of her shoes and the soft sand Amrithos would very unlikely feel any pain.

The course of action resembled a well known play with defined roles and rules, and while the other men received their second help, he slowly made to taste the strange unknown fruit in his hand. It was soft and caved in at the touch of his tongue and teeth, the moist pink flesh being uncommonly sweet and rather sticky than juicy.

Seeing that he was about to finish his fig, Lothíriel offered him the second one, but Amrothos intervened. "I wouldn't eat more than one, if I were you, Horselord."

"That's enough, Roth! I know you like them, but to grudge a guest and friend a treat should even be beyond your imbecility." Elphir's face was stern, while Erchirion shook his head.

Lothíriel lifted her hand. "Don't get agitated, Elphir. Even if Éomer did not want a second one, I would rather eat it myself, than stuff it down Amrothos' greedy throat."

"Well, that certainly was the last thing I expected to see," Amrothos smirked, "my sister sharing figs with the King of Rohan."

"Roth!" Erchirion yelled, his fists clenched, while Elphir simply stared in total disbelief. Not understanding what exactly was going on, Éomer saw Lothíriel blush profoundly, before she wordlessly dropped the fruit and turning round, grabbed the grill and some piece of cloth lying near it and made for the shore.

Seeing the tenseness in her shoulders, Éomer felt his anger rise. Wasn't it enough that this vain git was trying to twit him all the time? Couldn't he leave the woman in peace? "What is all this about? What was your brainless remark aimed at, to embarrass your sister thus?"

"Éomer, please..." Erchirion grabbed his shoulder. "It was just brainless, as you said yourself, but I assure you not meant to hurt."

Amrothos at least had the decency to look sheepish, throwing Elphir a doubtful look. When Elphir eventually spoke, his voice dripped with contempt. "You're just a conceited ass, Brother. There is nothing else to be said."

"Wait!" With a quick thrust of his right hand Éomer grasped Amrothos' tunic right across his chest, crumpling the cloth in his fist. "I want to know the meaning behind the words you said."

Imrahil's youngest looked him right into the eye. "Oh bugger, Éomer, just pack your punch, I deserve it."

Flaring his nostrils, Éomer gave a mirthless laugh. "That I know for sure, but I want to comprehend what you said."

With a sigh Elphir raised his hand. "It is simply idiotic. You see, eating too many figs, especially when not used to them, will cause the runs. The fruit is even used an agent against constipation."

"You are not trying to tell me your sister gave us a purgative." Not letting go of Amrothos, Éomer eyed Elphir suspiciously.

"No, certainly not. But that's why Lothíriel didn't bring more than two for each of us, I suppose." Erchirion's voice sounded edgy. "The fruit's absolutely safe, as long as you don't eat too many, and she knows how much we like them. We collect them every time we come here."

Reluctantly Éomer loosened his grip. They certainly were not lying to him, but from the way Erchirion averted his eyes, he was sure that there was more in it than they had told him. The general embarrassment could be grabbed with both hands. He suddenly felt sick of their company.

"Éomer..." Looking up, he saw Erchirion standing in front of him, extending the fig in his outstretched hand.

Wordlessly Éomer snatched the fruit, and with a flick of his wrist threw it at Amrothos. _Let the sod choke on it!_

Turning away from them, his eyes followed the upright figure walking down to the shore, and he felt his stomach clench with apprehension. He was on instable ground, not knowing the exact reason for her obvious hurt, but he would not back off. He had to set this right. Now.


	6. Chapter 6

**Thanks a lot for all your encouragement. You certainly have been very kind to me, so here comes the next chapter one day early! ;-) Enjoy reading.  
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**Chapter 6**

Sitting on one of the boulders near the water, her shoes lying beside her, she was holding the grill between her bare feet, scrubbing it with the help of wet sand and the cloth. He awkwardly sat down on one of the lower rocks, not knowing how to proceed. Finally he decided on a direct approach, cleared his throat and said: "I'm most sorry for the embarrassment, my lady."

Shooting him a short side glance, she just shrugged. "You needn't be. It was nothing of your doing. Amrothos is just a git. But then, not even he really meant to embarrass me. He was just thoughtless … as was I."

That was not the answer he had expected. But then, what had he expected? He at least would try to make her feel better. "Well, as far as I guess it would not have been like that if I had not been present." With an inward cringe he realised that there was little chance to phrase anything like that more woodenly.

She gave a kind of coughing laugh. "I don't think you could help that, my lord. We just should have been more careful, as to keep you out of mortifying situations."

He felt awfully tired of beating about the bush. Wasn't he at least entitled to know the reason behind all this? Stubbornly he persisted: "As a matter of fact I don't even understand, why everyone took it that serious … unless the explanation your brothers gave me was somewhat incomplete."

Again this quick, appraising glance. "And what did they tell you?"

"That eating too many figs, especially when not used to it, could result in certain unwanted activities of the bowls."

"Cowards!" One of her typical snorts accompanied the statement.

"Well?" Looking at her enquiringly, he waited.

She did not avert her eyes, though blushing profoundly. He watched her, feeling strangely captivated. How could she be that contradicting? Strong and bold like a warrior and utterly vulnerable at the same time.

Clearing her throat, she bluntly stated: "They did not lie to you, but figs are also believed to be an aphrodisiac, and along the Falas, saying about a man and a woman eating figs together is a euphemism for..." Now her eyes slid to her hands and she determinedly focussed on scrubbing the grill, though nevertheless continued speaking with an even and steady voice. "Well... for doing it."

_He should have punched Amrothos there and then!_ How could that idiot blurt out something like that in front of his sister, with a stranger's present?

The princess gave a resigned shrug. "That meaning was certainly not on my mind, when I chided Amrothos, and he just jumped at the chance to get the better of me without thinking."

Looking up, she gave him a wry smile. " Don't thrash him, my lord, though he certainly deserves it. He may be an idiot, a nuisance and a real pain in the neck, but he still is my brother and I love him."

He frowned. "What makes you think I would beat him?"

Now she smiled openly : "Your face looks like a storm cloud, and I somehow have the impression you are not angry with me."

"No, I'm certainly not." He could not help feeling amazed at how fast his mood was changing.

_Bema, this smile warmed his innards like a cup of mead!_ "I thank you for your outspokenness. You certainly are a warrior's daughter."

"That's at least what I've always been told." The smile was about to definitely turn into a grin. "How's your foot."

Glad for the change of the topic, Éomer hastened to answer. "Quite well, as far as I can tell. Anyway much better that with the spikes still inside."

She looked at him doubtfully. "No throbbing?"

With a shrug he affirmed:" Nothing to talk about."

"Men!" Rolling her eyes mockingly, she turned back to her work.

"Let me do that," he said, taking the grill. Placing it in front of him, he stretched out a hand, demanding the cloth.

Laughingly she slapped it into his hand. "I can't say that cleaning grills is one of my favourite occupations, but I doubt it's a fitting task for Rohan's King."

He grinned. "If you think it a fitting task for Dol Amroth's Princess..."

She shook her head. "It's rather a matter of dividing chores. The men already caught and roasted the lobsters."

"Besides the urchin that was rather a pleasure." Scooping a handful of wet sand he started to give the grill a thorough scrub.

"So you enjoyed the trip?" Her head slightly tilted, she looked at him enquiringly.

"Much more than I ever expected in the morning," he assured her.

She nodded solemnly. "I was worried a bit. You seemed very tense at breakfast, and I found it hard to believe you so totally averted to sailing, especially as Erchirion had told me that you were looking forward to the trip."

Éomer felt caught under her scrutinizing gaze and emphatically busied himself scrubbing the bars of the grill. She had been frank to him, though it must have cost her quite some effort. Did not one truth deserve an other? And anyway, he did not want to hide the incident from Erchirion. Having made up his mind, he raised his head. "I was not worried about the sea or about the sailing trip at all, I really had been looking forward to it until this very morning."

"Then why..." Her face bore such an open and puzzled expression that he felt deeply ashamed about what he was going to admit.

"I overheard a conversation between you and Erchirion in the garden, and I jumped at the wrong conclusions."

"What?" Her incomprehension seemed even to deepen.

With a deep sigh he plodded on. "I was in the gardenshed this morning, when you and Erchirion came to cut flowers, and you didn't see me."

A deep furrow appeared on her brow. "Why were you in the shed? And why didn't you speak up to make your presence known?"

Now it was Éomer's turn to blush, and cursing himself inwardly, he felt the treacherous heat reach his ears. "I went in to free a bird that had got entangled, and I was about to address you, when I heard what you said about some..., well, some Gondorean noble, you obviously don't estimate very much, and as you never mentioned his name, I thought you were talking about me."

"What? Éomer..." Her hand shot out, catching his wrist, her face a mirror of profound shock. "How could you..." Suddenly realising her behaviour, she removed her hand. "Please excuse my misdemeanour, my lord, but..."

"Never mind, you claimed family not long ago, didn't you? And my parents certainly didn't name me Lord."

She was too agitated to join in his attempt to lighten the atmosphere. "How could you imagine us to say such abominable things about you?"

Éomer felt like a complete idiot. "For one I didn't know you. All I had seen of you was the perfectly cool and distant Gondorean hostess the night before. And what you uttered was exactly what I believe a lot of Gondor's nobles do think about me."

She nodded thoughtfully. "I see, but how could you expect Erchirion to say, nay even to think anything like that?"

"I couldn't and it simply paralysed me. I felt like my heart had stopped." The mere thought of it caused him to draw a ragged breath. Suddenly he felt her hand on his arm.

"My Lord Éomer."

He looked up into her troubled mien.

"Please, don't tell Erchirion about this." Seeing his surprise she explained: "I don't mean you shouldn't tell him at all, but please, not right now."

She avoided his gaze now, and seemed focused on her bare toes, digging little holes into the wet sand, but continued after a while. "For Erchirion you are someone very special, and I could not bear to think how much he would hurt, learning that you believed him capable of such a betrayal. He... " The sentence petered out into an oppressive silence.

_How could he ever have believed anything like that? _He felt a strange mingle of guilt and amazement. Was that sorrowful young woman the same as the aloof hostess of the previous night, the bratty girl, giving her brothers a tongue lashing, the caring comrade, digging the urchin-spikes out of his feet, the proud and foul-mouthed sailor, without any mercy for her foes, the dutiful daughter at breakfast? He wondered how many more layers there were in her personality. She puzzled him in a most disturbing way, but he knew for sure, he did not want her to be sad.

Gently he took her hand. "I will do as you deem right, Lady Lothíriel, though I feel I'll have to tell him one day, nevertheless."

She nodded. "Yes, I know, it is just..."

Feeling her fingers fidgeting uneasily, Éomer let go of her hand and took up cleaning the grill again. "He's your favourite brother?"

"No, well yes, somehow I do care most for him, but that is because the others seem to have found their role, their place and position in life, while Erchirion..." She sighed and somehow helplessly shrugged her shoulders. Feeling her hesitation, he waited patiently, and finally she started to talk, serious and calm.

"If you want to judge my brothers, you just have to watch them at their sparring. All three of them are skilled swordsmen, but each of them has his very characteristic style. Elphir is fighting like he is playing chess: cool, calculating his opponent's actions and reactions, while Amrothos is more a dancer than a fighter. Mind you, he is fearless and deft, but still I have the impression that even in the middle of a fight he thinks about what he looks like." She paused again, as if pondering her words.

"And Erchirion?" Though not looking up from his work, he felt her shifting uneasily.

"I don't know how to put it, he... looses himself in the fight. He is an accomplished warrior, that to be sure, but what somehow frightens me is that once the fight is up, he is ruthless against himself, and there is nothing for him but his opponent and his will to win."

Surprised Éomer looked up. Wasn't that the way a skilled and devoted swordsman was to act? She was not looking at him, her fingers playing nervously with the hem of her tabard. What was worrying her that much?

With a sigh she continued: "And he's like that not only when fighting. He plunges into all kinds of situations with all he has to give, not holding back anything for himself." With a shrug and a lopsided smile she added: "I'm even convinced he really opens his heart to any tavern wench the moment he beds her; he can't do anything without his heart being involved."

Indecisively she looked at her hands in her lap before lifting her eyes to Éomer. "It would kill him if he knew. Tell him one day, when he has found someone to anchor him in life, tell him as something long past and long overcome, some error in the disturbances of times gone, and he will be able to cope with it, not now."

Contemplating what she had said, Éomer nodded. "I suppose you are right. He himself told me something very similar. Somehow he never really seemed to me like a man from Gondor. We often joked about him going to the Mark, but I never thought it more that a joke up to now."

"He might even try to convince himself that it is a joke, yet I think in his heart of hearts he is more than serious about it." Her eyes still on her hands, she continued haltingly: "What he saw of Rohan, when he went to Edoras for King Théoden's funeral, impressed him greatly, and I can well imagine that it would do him good to go to Rohan again, at least for a while."

Having nearly finished his work, Éomer now concentrated on the welded joints of the bars. "He has quite a knack with horses," he offered.

Seizing his proposition, she overcame her misgivings. "He certainly has. And perhaps that could provide a position for him. Father will be moving to Minas Tirith, as King Elessar would appreciate his council at court, so Elphir will be managing Dol Amroth. Amrothos wants to employ himself rebuilding Gondor's Navy, and I could well imagine Erchirion to introduce Rohirric techniques and skills into Gondor's Army, or something the like." She spoke with eloquence and ease now, reminding Éomer of a rider, having reached solid ground after plodding through boggy terrain.

"And what about yourself?"

"We'll see. As there is little choice for a Gondorean noblewoman, most probably I will end up in marriage to some important lord, but I hope that may still be some time ahead."

"You are adverse to marriage?" He was quite astonished. All Gondorean noblewomen he had met up to now had eagerly aimed at that.

"No, not necessarily to marriage itself. Rather to the kind of marriage that very likely is in store for me." Shrugging her shoulders, she continued: "I hate the idea of being married off for political reasons, though I know I'll have to accept it in the end out of duty to my country." Her eyes held a resigned expression.

Being married off... how could she think of herself like that? Surely Imrahil would not do anything like that. But then... this was Gondor, and customs differed. And duty to one's country was not easily set aside. Éomer could not help feeling a strange kind of concern.

"Ah well, I should not spoil your day with my whining." With a wry smile she brushed a strand of hair that had escaped her braid out of her face. "It is not that arranged marriages necessarily remain loveless. Things can develop, as long as there is a basic regard for one another."

She rose from the boulder, facing the glistening waters of the bay. "My parents' marriage was arranged, and yet they love each other dearly."

Having finished his task, Éomer put the grill on top of the boulder. The sound of metal on rock made her turn. Her face was composed now, and all traces of sadness and fatigue was gone."And I do want children," she said with emphasis.

At least that was something he could perfectly comprehend. Did not every woman want children? Was it not a woman's right? But then something like horror crept over him: What about those children's health? Was the wish for conception enough to make a woman enjoy lying with a man? But perhaps they had found a solution for this in Gondor? Their knowledge in healing was that profound … Perhaps they had a treatment for their infants that made passion redundant. Somehow this thought did not ease his misgivings.

"You would agree to a political marriage for the sake of having children?"

"It sounds weird, doesn't it?" Her mouth twisted in a wry smile. "Yet, rather than staying childless... yes, I suppose I would."

Turning to him, her eyes lit up. "I was present at Alphros' birth. Believe me, the birth of a child is a miracle."

"Yes, it certainly is,"he agreed, wondering were their conversation had taken them.

Her face became thoughtful, but she did not seem to see him, being lost in memories. "Poor Sídhril laboured so long and suffered so much pain, yet the moment she held her son in her arms, she obviously had forgotten everything. She was so utterly exhausted but she seemed to glow from within."

She hesitated, but then, looking straight into his face, she added firmly: "And, yes, I do want to experience this miracle myself." Her cheeks were slightly flushed with excitement.

_Béma, how very much alive she was!_

With a soft chuckle she continued: "And newborn babies are so ..." She seemed to be searching for a fitting word.

Intrigued by her agitation, Éomer suggested: "Beautiful?"

To his surprise she gave one of her typical snorts. "Beautiful? For Uinen's mercy! Certainly not!" She laughed. "Tell me my lord, have you ever seen a newborn child?"

"Yes, I certainly have." He felt rebuked and vexed by her mirth.

"And it was beautiful?" Her inquisitorial eyes, sparkling with laughter, made him frown.

Was that woman mad? How could there be anything more beautiful than a a tiny baby? But perhaps they looked different in Gondor, begotten without the life-ensuring joy? What a mess had he got himself in!

Sensing his ill humour, she shook her head and insisted: "My Lord Éomer, please tell me, how many hours was that child you saw?"

"Hours?" he asked baffled. Hours... He had arrived in the Wold the second day after Gytha's birth. "I don't know exactly, though surely not more than two days."

"Two days!" Now she laughed merrily. "My lord, that explains everything. Already after some hours they are all pink and fluffy, but the moment they are born..." She wrinkled her nose. "They are tiny and dear, but they start rather ugly, all greyish and wizened."

Seeing his disbelief she added: "You wouldn't call a foal beautiful, before it is dry and standing, would you?"

He opened his mouth and closed it again. She was doubtlessly right; he had never thought of the very moment of birth.

Tilting her head she said teasingly: "Well, as a compensation for my rudeness, let me describe a two days-old healthy child to you: pink, chubby, with a swirl of dark downs on a little round head... No, in your case it was most likely blond..."

_Blond … almost white it had been, a few soft hairs on a rosy head, that few that it had nearly looked bald ... and that tiny face ... that little stubby nose, a bit scratched at one nostril ... that sweet little mouth, making soft sucking noises in sleep and those eyes, big behind closed eyelids ... a miracle ... beautiful ... those tiny hands ... that tiny, but complete, totally perfect ... tiny fingers around his forefinger ... tiny fingers with minute fingernails,shining like freshly bloomed petals ..._

"My lord?" Her voice and a soft touch at his shoulder brought him out of his reverie. He blinked. She was standing in front of him, bending down, searching his face with concerned eyes.

"It's nothing," he stated lamely, feeling utterly embarrassed.

"Finished that grill?" Amrothos' voice nearly made them jump. Totally unabashed Imrahil's youngest son stepped up beside them. Dumping the bags he was carrying on the beach, he busied himself with the line that held his boat and pulled it closer to the shore. "We should get going. Elphir and Erchirion are already breaking up camp."

Rising an eyebrow he addressed Éomer: "So what have you decided? Go back with Erchirion or dare some real sailing with Lothíriel and me?" He threw his bags on board and went to take the grill.

"And what makes you think I am sailing with you?" The princess' voice cut like a whip.

"Loth, please!" Amrothos' face showed a mixture of guilt and eagerness. "I know I've been a moron, but with none of our brothers I would get her sail the way she could with the stiff breeze we might get. Just imagine Elphir sailing with me!"

She didn't answer but averted her head with an angry jerk. Having thrown the grill on deck, her brother walked with ostentation around her, till she was facing him again.

"Loth," Amrothos pleaded, "look, you wouldn't let a chance like this slip away unused, would you?"

When she did not answer, he seemed to take it for an affirmation. His usual grin reappearing, he turned back to Éomer. "It would be of great avail if you came, too. You see, the boat is a bit over-rigged and any kind of ballast would help keep her straight." Chuckling he continued: "You don't have to worry though. As you are quite a hunk of a man, that may well keep us from capsizing."

"King Éomer is our guest and not a dead weight!" With bristling eyes Lothíriel positioned herself between the two men.

Amrothos raised his hands in defence. "I wasn't thinking about _dead_ weight, Loth."

Éomer felt his fists clench. Seemingly unaware of any danger, the young prince grinned at him. "Anyway, you can swim, can't you? And if things go wrong, we can still use you as an anchor."

"Just put a cork in it, will you?" Lothíriel seemed ready to go for her brother's throat.

"As long as you promise to sail with me, I'll do anything you demand, Sister." With a mock bow Amrothos took his leave and made to return to their camp. Looking back over his shoulder, he shot Éomer a broad grin: "Don't you worry, Horseking, between the two of us, we'll make a dashing pirate of you!"

Lothíriel shook her head and gave a resigned sigh. "Amrothos is a blithering idiot, but he's right. Your weight could really make a difference."

Éomer looked at her sceptically. "Would you like to sail with him?"

She shrugged. "Yes and no. I would surely like to punish him, not sailing with him, for Elphir will never agree with Amothos' way of sailing, but it won't change Roth's manners at all, and then I would deprive myself of the thrill of a really exciting ride. We'll see."

Pointing towards the western side of the little bay she said: " I'd like to climb up the ridge to have a last look at the open sea. Would you like to accompany me? The place will look much different now with the incoming tide."


	7. Chapter 7

**Thanks to all of you reading, subscribing and especially to those who took the trouble to review! You are really encouraging.  
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**As I'll be off into the wilds in the beginning of August , here comes some compensation, or wergild, as some Horselord might put it: I'll post the due chapters before leaving. ;-)**

**Warning: The following chapter contains some major culture clash, severe awkwardness between a certain Horselord and a very furious Princess and last but not least Imrahil's offspring behaving like Imrahil's offspring. And it certainly gives away the author's attitude concerning male beauty! ;-D**

**Read and enjoy! ... And tell me if you do so! ;-)  
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**Chapter7**

Walking did not pose any problem but when climbing the low ridge, Éomer felt his toe complain, which caused him to slow down and choose his steps more carefully. When he finally reached the top, Lothíriel stood with her back to him, looking out over the endless space in front of her, the gusty wind tugging at her clothes and hair.

Stepping up beside her, he looked out over the space he had walked across only two hours ago. The rocky ground was now totally covered by water, white streaks of foam pointing out the spots where boulders hid under its rippled surface. At the foot of the low cliff the incoming waves rolled over and broke, white froth marking the shore line while further out the wind-stirred waters glistened like hammered steel, an endless plate, losing itself on the horizon.

The Western Sea! He felt a strange tug at his heart at the sight of the surface's everlasting motion, wondering, how it would be to see this sunlit expanse whipped into gushing breakers, rolling in like a thundering cavalcade, roaring shorewards, as Erchirion had described it to him at Cormallen.

"Ungwe Morgothno!"

Startled he looked at the woman beside him and nearly recoiled from the fury and hatred, displayed on her face. Pale she was, though angry red spots appeared on her cheekbones, her lips a thin, determined line, her eyes flaming daggers.

"My lady, what's the matter?"

Spinning round, she wordlessly pointed to the southern horizon, and following her outstretched arm with his gaze, he spied the triangle of a sail out on the open sea.

"Mardil of Edhellond," she spat.

"How can you be that sure?" he asked puzzled. Certainly that boat was much too far away to make out her owner.

Turning towards him, she motioned angrily with her hand. "Besides Amrothos' there is only one boat around the whole of Cabas Haven rigged like that, with main- and foresail. Normally the boats only have one sail over here."

She looked back at the approaching boat, her fists balled at her sides. "Someone must have told him where we went. That scum started late and therefore had to follow the Ringló channel."

The contempt he had already sensed in the morning radiated from her like cold fire. What made this woman hate someone like that? Éomer was sure, that if anybody dared to tell him, it would be her, herself. He realised he needed to know, not out of curiosity, but rather due to the urge to understand her. Yet he was well aware that he was treading on thin ice.

"May I speak openly, my lady?" Getting no negative reaction, he continued: "What kind of a man is this Mardil of Edhellond that you hate him that much?"

Slewing round, she gazed at him angrily: "What kind of a man?" Nevertheless she seemed to ponder the question, as after pausing for a moment, she asked him: "Tell me, my lord, at the age of twenty-five, would you have called yourself an experienced man? Mind you: man, not warrior."

What kind of question was that? Which healthy man would not be at that age? And certainly there was no difference between Gondor and Rohan, as far as he guessed from what he had seen at Cormallen and in Minas Tirith after the War. He decided to give her a plain answer. "Yes, I would," he said, surprised at the raspiness of his own voice.

She nodded resolutely, her eyes cold, dark grey and hard as the pebbles on the shore. "What then would you call a man of that age, an experienced man, as you said yourself, who took his pleasure, seducing innocents, at least ten years his junior?"

Éomer felt totally at a loss, nothing of her question making any sense to him. Was the age of fifteen not the proper age to start into adulthood? Was it not that time in life everyone started to yearn for the joys of the body? Éothain's wife had been sixteen when they got married, the reason for their decision more than audible. But then, Éothain himself had not been that much older, being not yet nineteen summers, and they had been head over heels in love. It was natural that pleasure was sought after by young people, and in not few cases that grew into love. Yet what pleasure could a man find, bedding explicitly innocents? Laying a virgin first place meant responsibility and devotion, not pleasure, no experienced man would do that, without really loving the woman...except perhaps when thought after by the wenches to teach them... but fifteen-year old girls would not do that, well at least not in general. And anyway that was nothing to tell Imrahil's daughter.

His brain was working frantically. Surely Gondor could not differ that much from Rohan in that case. Had not Erchirion warned the Riders to stay away from innocents? So surely that was something not to trifle with as well in Gondor. So what could induce a grown man to bed innocent girls that young? Suddenly the obvious solution to her riddle struck him. "A coward," he said, convinced to have at last understood what she was aiming at.

"A coward?"

Her aghast expression made clear that that was not the answer, she had been expecting. Éomer felt the urge to run his hand through his hair.

_Béma, what had he got himself in!_ But it could not be helped now. Sounding as matter-of-fact as possible, he tried to explain. "Well, yes. Either that or a very bad lover. I mean, unless that man is not profoundly afraid of having his performances compared to his predecessors..." Seeing her, staring at him agape, made him stop mid-sentence. He felt uncertain, and this uncertainty made him want to lash out. Had not she asked that stupid question?

"No sane man would bed a virgin for pleasure," he finally announced in a sulky tone.

"I see." Her voice was tart. He hoped she would leave it at this but pushing her chin forward, she continued her interrogation. "Well, and what would you call these girls?"

"The girls?" He did not comprehend. "Well, girls, what else should I call them?"

Impatiently she threw her hands up. "My Lord Éomer, I'm not talking about farm girls or tavern wenches. I'm referring to young noblewomen. How would they fare in Rohan?"

He shrugged. "Surely their families would not be happy about it, but with such a difference in age and experience they would certainly hold the man responsible. Perhaps some people would snigger at them for falling for such a man... but then I can't imagine any girl... I mean, such a man would be the gossip and ridicule of the whole country, no woman would care for his company. And anyway, there would be male relatives to make him pay."

Shaking her head in disbelief, she insisted. "But what about those girls' future?"

_He should have _stayed_ in bed! _The whole day so far had led him from one compromising situation to the next. If he only could compass what she obviously wanted to convey. He felt himself standing at an unbridgeable chasm... Nay, he corrected himself, rather a dyke, man-made, deepened through ages of differing traditions. He squared his shoulders. If man-made it was, man could overcome it! He at least had to try.

He cleared his throat. "I'm sorry, my lady, but I don't comprehend, what you intend to make me understand. It seems customs in Rohan and Gondor differ too much for us to understand each other."

Averting her eyes, she drew a deep breath. "In Gondor any young woman of family being found no virgin at her wedding, risks disdain and degradation, not only for herself, but for her entire family. Her husband will send her back to her family, stating publicly that he found her soiled, and in order not to share her dishonour, the family will cast her out for being wanton."

Éomer stared in disbelief. What was she talking of? Soiled? How could a woman get soiled by laying with a man?

Her voice slightly coarse, she continued: "Losing her maidenhead outside the marriage bed means losing her future life. There is no real chance for her, ever to get married and start a family of her own, for no man of honour would marry her."

Realizing the coherence, he gasped, feeling horror coil in his stomach like an icy snake. That could not be! No man had the right to deprive a woman of the sacred boon to bring forth new life. That would violate the ancient rules, unbalance the scales of life and death. Unhinge the very foundation of society... And that fiend had done so knowingly? Had taken pleasure in it? Struggling for composure, he asked for confirmation, still somehow hoping he had misunderstood.

"My lady, are you suggesting Mardil of Edhellon took pleasure in destroying these young girls' prospects of ever becoming a wife and mother?" He cringed at the monstrosity of his own question.

She shrugged: "Not necessarily. I rather suppose he didn't care at all, being wrapped too much in his own importance, flattering his vanity with the thought that his seductive powers were stronger than the fear of public scorn, instilled into any maiden of family from early age."

"But why was he never punished?" He almost yelled the question. If they thought it that important for their maidens to be virgins, why did their male relatives not challenge the scum and finish him off one and for good? His head was spinning. Béma, they called the Rohirrim barbarians, but surely this was more barbaric than anything he had ever heard of.

Lothíriel laughed mirthlessly. "Sure that has to come from a man! My lord, which girl would tell her family, knowing what is to happen to her?"

"But why? Why? How can an innocent..." He did not know how to continue. He did not understand, he did not want to understand. "My lady," he finally managed to say, "these girls probably didn't even know what that filth actually was up to, how can it be that they, and only they, bear the responsibility for their action."

She looked into his agitated face, her eyes grave, yet not unkind. "My Lord Éomer, this is Gondor. And in Gondor it's a woman's duty to uphold her family's dignity."

Turning briskly, she stepped down to the beach and strode with quick steps towards the boats, leaving the King of Rohan stare after her.

When he finally reached the anchorage ground, he found Imrahil's children in a heated discussion, Elphir in his characteristic considerate way obviously holding his ground against his siblings.

"I will never let him set his damned feet on this island, even if it would be the last thing I was doing!" Lothíriel was fuming with rage. "He has no right to befoul the happy memories all of us have, coming here."

"She's right," Amrothos assented, "though I can well understand that Erchi wants a chance to welcome him fittingly."

Seeing Éomer, Elphir beckoned to him, addressing him in a low voice: "I don't know how fast that scum may be here, but just in case: Keep an eye on Erchirion, will you? I'll try and keep Roth under control."

Erchirion grunted with suppressed ire: "You just chose the right one for that task! Éomer would be the first to cut that sod into tiny twitching pieces if he knew."

Not losing his composure one bit, Elphir turned towards his brother, assuringly touching his shoulder. "And I would gladly approve but for the sake of peace in Gondor... Not now, Brother!"

"Oh, just shut up, all of you! If he knew! He knows, because I told him." Not minding her brothers' shocked expressions, Lothíriel continued: "I don't want to give the impression we are running away from that bastard either, but can't we board and await him at the entrance of the bay, thus keeping him from stepping ashore?"

"He'll be keen on challenging Roth to a race anyway, judging his boasts last night," Erchirion looked at his younger siblings deliberatively.

Amrothos sported an evil grin: "Well then, what are we waiting for? Let's get aboard and hope he'll capsize."

"One moment!" Giving Amroth a reprimanding look, Elphir intervened: "I don't want you to take any idiotic, unreckonable risk. Loth is going to sail with Erchirion and Éomer, and I'll be coming with you."

Amrothos groaned but before he could counter, his sister spoke up."No, Brother! Loth is not going to sail with Erchirion! I'll be sailing with Amrothos and we better get going before Lord Scum enters port!"

Éomer felt Elphir's thoughtful glance. "Éomer," he finally said, "do you feel up to accompanying these two imbecile hotspurs? I don't want to lose time in fruitless discussions, and I do have some hope left that being responsible for the King of Rohan's safety might keep them from foolhardy hazards."

Éomer solemnly nodded, but Amrothos howled: "Morgoth's balls, Elphir! I'm not the Horseking's nursemaid!"

With a short glance at Lothíriel, who watched the scene with an inscrutable mien, Éomer made for Amrothos' boat. Just as he was about to climb the ship's side, Amrothos appeared besides him, throwing the line on deck, his face in a sour twist. His face deadpan, Éomer slightly bent towards him. "Just in case I forgot to tell you, Pirate: I can swim."

A grin flashed over Amrothos' face. "Get aboard then, before my dear brother changes his mind."

They climbed on board, and turning to help Lothíriel, Éomer realised with admiration that no help at all was needed. Climbing the ship's side with feline grace, she stepped on deck and began to clear away their luggage, fast but carefully.

Amrothos hoisted the mainsail halfway and then went to sit at the tiller. Slowly the boat drifted towards the mouth of the bay, followed by Erchirion's vessel. Just when they were about to berth, Mardil of Edhellond's boat rounded and made for the bay.

The wood of the elegant hull shone with a deep reddish brown, the centre of the mainsail exhibiting a stylised yellow Elannor flower, the emblem of Edhellond. The two liveried men they had already seen at the jetty at Dol Amroth were busy shortening the sails. As they brought the ship alongside Erchirion's, Éomer had a glimpse at the man that had been sitting at the tiller and now was moving to the prow of the boat and he unintentionally held his breath. Never before had he seen such beauty in a man.

Sure, Imrahil's line was said to be connected with the elves of Dwimordene, and he and his sons were fair to behold, but this man bore true resemblance to the Eldar themselves. Tall and slender he was, strikingly well-built, a fact that was well amplified by the elegant cut of his clothes, and his movements were graceful and smooth, despite the rolling of the vessel.

His dark hair fell in silky waves to his shoulders, and all of a sudden Éomer realised that Mardil must have combed his hair right before turning into the bay. _What a vain git! _Yet he couldn't help feeling amazed by the beauty of the other man's face.

There were the Numenorean features, the long face and the high brow and cheekbones, but these features were strangely softened to some unusual pulchritude that bordered on the incomprehensible.

Whereas Imrahil's kin as well as Aragorn sported the typical slightly aquiline nose, Mardil's was faultlessly straight, thin-ridged with shapely alars, no stubble shaded his cheeks and the well-chiseled chin, and though his jawline truly displayed a well-measured male angularity, there as no ruggedness to perceive, his lips being full and mellow, curled in a slightly arrogant smile.

How old was he? Older than himself, younger? Éomer had his doubts, knowing about the longevity of the people of Westernesse. And yet there was something that contradicted the first impression of Elvish beauty and youth, some lines around mouth and nose, the slight hint of tear sacs under his eyes...

Mardil was speaking to Elphir now, who was standing at the bow, Erchrion having retreated to the tiller, and Éomer admired the absolute composure of Imrahil's eldest.

"Sure the twat will do no less than talk to the heir," Amrothos' sardonic smile did nothing to soften the tight set of his jaw. "He wants to trounce _me_, but he will arrange for it with Elphir." Turning to Éomer, his expression changed to his usual display of carelessness, and he addressed him with a wicked grin. "Anyway, on board my boat I'm the captain, Horselord, and when the game is up, you'll have to follow my orders."

"I thought you regarded me as ballast, how can you expect me to even comprehend any orders?" Éomer retorted.

He suddenly realised, that he missed Lothíriel's heated pay-back at her brother's asinine remarks. Turning towards her, he found her absorbed in watching Mardil of Edhellond, her face a mask of controlled fury. Standing upright, totally motionless, her head held high, she seemed like some doomed queen out of legend. Her jaw was set, her lips a thin line, her eyes expressionless, as if to shut out every enquiry into her soul. Yet as he watched her, to his utter surprise and dismay, he saw her proud chin tremble just so slightly, her lower lip quiver scarcely perceivable, and her eyes...

_Bema, she was not going to cry, was she?_

But within the split of a second the moment of weakness was over, and again she stood proud and erect like a blade of tempered steel. Torn between concern and admiration he watched her, when suddenly the thought hit him like a poleaxe.

_An experienced man at the age of 25...How old was she?...How old had she been...five years ago. Gods, could it be?_

He felt helpless, overwhelmed by the urge to care that brought forth a wave of contradictory emotions, one part of him wanting to take her into his arms, soothe her, while the other part wanted to shake her, yell at her not to yield, not to give up...

Drawing a ragged breath he suddenly sensed being watched, and turning, his gaze met the all-knowing stare of Amrothos' jackdaw eyes. Éomer steadily answered his gaze, realisation sinking in. If they were ever to make that fiendish travesty of a man pay, this was their chance, and Amrothos was providing the weapon. Slowly he inclined his head.

"Whatever you order, Captain."

"Whatever is necessary, Éomer."

"So be it," Éomer nodded.

A quick grin flashing over his face, Imrahil's son reached out for Éomer's hand. "Give me a sailor's handshake at that!"

As their hands clasped in a firm grip, Lothíriel stepped up, putting her right hand on top of theirs. "Then let me proclaim our motto: It's make or break!"

Repeating her words, Éomer looked into her face, but no hint of her former sorrow was visible. Her face still was grave but her eyes were alive now, sparkling like spearheads in the light of a rising sun. He drew a deep breath. They would fight in a way, at least something he was familiar with, though he was unsure about his role in their fight. He couldn't help a grin and found both siblings grinning back at him.

Putting an arm around Lothíriel's shoulder, Amrothos chuckled. "Well, Sister, as our dear brother made us the Horselord's nursemaids, let's teach the boy some new game! He told me he can swim and as he is sworn to the crew now, we'll pull through to the breaking of mast and cloth."

Her grin deepened. "We certainly will."

Covering her hair with her headscarf, she looked at Éomer and nodded encouragingly. "In case we capsize, just make sure to jump overboard to the windward side to keep clear of the rigging and the down-coming sails. Erchirion and Elphir will be behind us anyway, so we stand a fair chance to be picked up soon. Now come and give me a hand with the sails."

**Annotations:**

**Ungwe Morgothno:** (Quenja) Morgoth's darkness


	8. Chapter 8

**Thank you for all the encouragement, I hope you will go on reading and enjoy the " thickening of the plot".**

**And a kowtow to Lialathuveril whose "_dictatorial lead mare" _from her wonderful story " On the Wings of the Storm" I shamelessly borrowed, having fallen in love with that simile the moment I read it.  
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**This is the chapter for all those of you who were wondering, when these blokes will finally start doing anything else besides eating, drinking and thoroughly embarrassing each other and themselves. ;-)  
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**Chapter 8**

Following the extension of the western cliffs, they took their position for the race to start. It had been agreed to sail to Edhellond, a name that held no information whatsoever for Éomer, but he was content to assist the siblings in their attempt to best Mardil. While Amrothos sat down at the tiller, Lothíriel instructed the Rohir on the basic tasks, when helping her with sails and lines, "running gear", as she called it, and it soon became clear to him that it really was his superior strength and weight she counted on, making him pull ropes and hoist sails, thus giving her clearance to tie the required knots and hitches.

When the sun caught in Mardil's mirror, which Elphir was holding up as the appointed sign for the start, the sails shot up and off they were. Soon Mardil took the lead with little more than a boat's length, while Erchirion was falling behind.

Both sails billowing at the port side in the fresh breeze, the boat heeled over in a way Éomer had never thought to be possible. Perched beside Lothíriel on the windward gunwale, he found himself looking down at the deck and the leeward side, but as the siblings obviously thought it nothing out of the ordinary, he just sat beside her, listening to her explanation of their course, while Amrothos kept the boat at a short distance behind Mardil's.

"I just don't understand," he mentioned after a while, "why we don't overtake him right now, if we really can, as you say."

"There are two reasons for it. First: To speed her up without capsizing, the two of us need to perform a certain manoeuvre, which requires some strength. We would not be able to hold out all the time till we reach the Ringló channel. And second: Once we reach the channel first, there will be no realistic chance for them to overtake us again."

Seeing Éomer's enquiring look, she specified: "Further shore-wards the waters are still not deep enough at this time of the tide for free sailing, so we'll have to keep to the Ringló channel that flows through the bay, and that will slow us down considerably, because we'll have the current of the river against us. And with the incoming tide and the wind we will be in for choppy waters: short, bumpy waves that are quite difficult to navigate. But if we keep to the starboard side of the channel, they won't be able to move further to the windward side to pass us, the water there being too shallow. And to the leeward they won't have enough sea-room and wind, and they would have to sail against the brunt of the current. Therefore Amrothos keeps her to their windward side now, and once we are close enough to the channel, we'll attack to create accomplished facts."

After about half an hour the wind seemed to increase, and Éomer thought he noticed Amrothos giving the sails some worried glances. He called Lothíriel's attention to it, but she just shrugged it off. "It's useless to huff at that tame a breeze. If we start worrying that easily, we can forget about besting him."

Squeezing her eyes nearly shut, she checked the movements of Mardil's boat, until finally a malicious smile appeared on her face. "They are at their limits. If they keep the sails up like that they'll surely capsize." Standing up and holding close to the ship's side, she scanned the horizon. "We shouldn't be too far from the Ringló channel anymore. If we want to overtake them, we'll have to do it now."

Without further explanations, she scrambled aft to Amrothos, keeping close to the ship's side. The siblings exchanged some short remarks, and Éomer saw Amrothos scrutinise him, nod, and then the princess came back, grinning wickedly.

"What's the matter, my lady?" he queried, but his question only earned him one of her snorts.

"My lady! There is nothing like titles and rank aboard a pirate ship. Amrothos is the captain, and you may well go about "my-lording" him, but we two are crew and fellow-pirates. Well, and now let's see, if your weight is really going to make the difference."

Fast and with deft hands she slung two ropes around the foot of the mast and came up to the gunwale again, dragging the rope-ends behind her. "You should like it," she announced, her eyes sparkling with mischief , "as we call the manoeuvre "riding out". It's an attempt to keep the boat from heeling too much. Just watch me and follow suit."

Handing him one of the rope-ends, she took the other line, pulled it tight and climbed the gunwale, her back turned towards the sea. Then she started to lengthen the rope, hand over hand, until her whole body was finally jutting outboards, almost level to the surface of the bay. Planting her bare feet slightly apart against the ship's side, she braced her body and then clung to the rope only with her left for a short moment, while slinging the rope thrice around her right wrist to ensure a saver hold. "Come on, now it's your turn. It's not difficult, as long as the swell is steady-going."

The view of her lithe body, positioned in such a precarious position, her bare feet firmly planted against the gunwale, the wind tugging at her garment, exposing her sinewy ankles and taunt calves, her hands, clutching the rope with obvious strength, left him with a dry throat.

_Where was the aloof noblewoman of the previous night? Béma, this woman surely was a challenge._

Following her example, Éomer climbed outboards and positioned himself besides her. He felt the vibration of the vessel juddering through his tense body, each cutting through a wave echoing in his muscles like the thud of a trotting horse's hooves. Turning his head, he found her watching him concernedly. "Everything all right?"

He nodded. "Quite so." Then the spray of a slightly higher wave hit him, wetting his back. He gasped and heard her chuckle.

"You won't feel the dankness anymore, once you are wet through. Are you ready?"

Not knowing what for, he simply affirmed, and was utterly startled, when she threw her head back, mimicking the shrill cry of the big gulls. Her yell still in his ears, he felt the movements of the ship slightly change. The ropes seemed to tighten, the sails to billow even further, the hull to heel more precariously, the sequence of the pitching movement, marking the waves cut by the ship's prow shortening...They were speeding up!

"We'll make it!" The gasping sound of her voice made him follow her line of sight. They were fast closing in on Mardil's boat, approaching it on the windward side. Shouts from the other boat showed that their antagonists were well aware of it. All of a sudden they were alongside Mardil's vessel, and to Éomer's amazement the other boat's sails started to flutter, the boat slowing down for a short instance and then falling behind. He felt the heave of the hull as their own ship shot into the leading position, and turning his head towards Amrothos' whooping voice, he saw Lothíriel, holding on only with her right hand, giving an arm pump of victory with her left.

Turning to him, her face displayed a huge grin. "That's it. If nothing unforeseen happens, he'll have no chance to..." The sentence ended in a high-pitched yelp, as a sudden rocking seized the boat, causing her knees to buckle.

The movement of the boat nearly made him loose his footing on the gunwale and instinctively Éomer grabbed the rope tighter and shot the princess a worried look. She had straightened up again, but the rope slung around her right wrist had shifted and tightened, notching into her skin. Cursing in a colourful mixture of Sindarin and Westron, she tried to ease the tension on her wrist, grabbing the rope further up with her left hand, but the constant bumping of the boat made any movement hazardous.

"Loth! Get aboard!" Amrothos' yell had an edge of urgency.

"No way!" she hissed through clenched teeth, stubbornly holding on.

Exceedingly alarmed, Éomer saw the rope cut deeper into her wrist with each jolt of the boat. A thin streamlet of blood showed on her bare forearm, her sleeves having slid up to her elbows. Her jaws were set with determination but when the next pitch of the boat made the rope jerk, a flash of pain shot over her face.

_She'll cut a sinew or a vein if she doesn't manage to get her wrist out of that damned rope! _He had seen a herdsman lose his hand like that, being dragged behind by an untrained horse. "Lothíriel, please listen to your brother."

"No!" She ground out the word with evident difficulty, but nevertheless continued. "Not now, we need more distance."

"He's not worth you losing your hand!" His fury at her stubbornness was easily audible, but she simply turned her head, avoiding his eyes.

Swearing violently in Rohirric, he tried to make up his mind what to do. Climbing the gunwale and pulling her up was no solution, as it would put further tension on her injured wrist. Coming to a fast decision, he moved closer to her before lengthening his rope just a little, lowering himself to a position slightly below her. Careful not to loose his footing on the side of the pitching ship, he shifted his body sidewards, until his left thigh was right behind her buttocks. Letting go the line with his left, he reached out around her, his longer limbs enabling him to catch her rope well above her hands. Her back now being cradled by his body, she literally sat on his lap, bumping against him with each jolt of the boat. He gritted his teeth, as he realized the second reason to change this situation as fast as possible.

"Lean back and unwind that rope from your wrist, lest you cut a sinew." His voice sounded strained and hoarse to his own ears, and he cringed when she obeyed and he beheld the deep gashes, the blood flowing freely now, unhampered by the rope.

"Loth!" Amrothos voice sounded alarmed. "Get up and have a look out!"

Leaning back against him, she looked up at Éomer's face. "Can you manage a little longer? We might be near to the channel changing direction and I'll better get myself to the prow and check."

Éomer nodded, and she pulled herself up despite her injured wrist till she crouched on the gunwale. Slipping on deck, she scrambled to the front part of the ship. After just a short moment she hurried back. " Come up! We' ll change course soon and we'll have to work fast and precisely."

He climbed up and immediately reached out for her wrist, but she pulled it away. "Don't worry about that, it's just a scratch and the seawater will keep it clean anyway. Listen: As soon as I tell you, you move over to the portside and loosen the sheet rope, the line that holds the main sail in position. Just pull it down with all your strength to take the tension off the hitch so I can easily loosen it. The boom will swing over to starboard, and we'll have to fix it there. Understood?"

He nodded, and she raised her hand, signalling to Amrothos that they were ready. Moving the tiller slightly to the right, Amrothos pulled the boat to the left, allaying the heeling a bit. "Go!" A nudge in his side caught his attention and he followed the princess, who scrambled over to the leeward side. Ducking low under the boom, they crawled to the other side of the sail and loosened the sheet rope, making the sail flutter, when all of a sudden Amrothos pulled the boat full to the left, causing the vessel to jerk and to jolt, and then with a rush of the main sail the boom swung over to the other side, dragging the rope they just had loosened out of Éomer's hands. The ship heaved and rolled, as it changed position, and the unexpected movement sent him to his knees with a fit of nausea.

"Hurry!" Lothíriel yelled, grabbing the rope and scampering to the fastener on starboard. Feeling slightly groggy, he got to his feet, caught the rope and pulled it as agreed. As soon as the knots were tied, the sails now spreading out like the wings of a bird on both sides of the ship, he let himself drop on deck in a sitting position. Closing his eyes he tried to coordinate his breathing and calm his upset stomach, annoyed by the nasty feeling of saliva gathering under his tongue.

"Lie down." Her voice did not sound derisively as he had expected, and he obeyed without opening his eyes, feeling embarrassingly wobbly. He felt her hand touch his shoulder. "Try to breathe steady and even, I'll get you some rusk."

Though the movements of the boat still were uncomfortable, the acute fit of nausea soon ceased somewhat and he realized that the deck below him no longer heeled. After just a short while he sensed someone bending over him.

"Open your mouth." Though her voice was soft, it did not leave any doubt about her persistence. Reluctantly he did as ordered and felt a morsel of tusk shoved between his teeth.

"Chew slowly and carefully before swallowing." Though still feeling faint, he couldn't help a grin._ As dictatorial as an old lead mare._ Munching the rusk, he slowly opened his eyes. She was sitting beside him, holding a rusk in her left hand, while her injured wrist was wrapped in the rolled-up lower part of her tabard. Swallowing, he opened his mouth to say something, but at once she shoved a second bite in. It tasted slightly of ginger, a taste he found rather pleasant, and he concentrated on finishing it.

"How do you feel?" she asked, when he had managed to swallow the second mouthful.

_Strange, that a voice can be cool and warm at the same time._ He cocked an eye at her. "Like a force-fed horse."

She grinned. "If you feel slightly better, try and eat the rest of it. It will do you stomach good."

He slowly sat up. His head was still swimming but his stomach was not giving him acute trouble anymore. Taking a deep breath, he steadied himself and made to eat the rest of the rusk, wondering if he would be able to keep himself from vomiting for the rest of their voyage. "How much time do we have till the next manoeuvre?"

"Don't worry, we'll keep going north-east for quite a time, following the Ringló channel towards Edhellond. Time enough for your stomach to settle again, and I will tell you what to expect before our next move. As a matter of fact I should have done so." She looked a him rather troubled. "Had you known what to expect, the movement would not have surprised you."

He gave her a lopsided grin. "Never mind, at least Amrothos will enjoy himself mightily. But there are other things more urgent now. Let me bind your wounds"

He removed his headscarf and folded up one end of it into some kind of padding, before reaching out for her injured wrist. Reluctantly she unwrapped it, and with concern he beheld what she had dismissed as a mere scratch. The rope had chaffed the skin off a large part of the wrist, cutting deep into the flesh just about the small bones of the joint. Her hand and her forearm were covered in partly dried streaks of blood, contrasting stridently with the creamy colour of her skin. "Can you move your fingers?"

To his great relief she nodded, moving every single finger before his eyes, but the movement caused the gashes to start bleeding again. If she felt any pain, her face did not show it, and he felt his heart rise with admiration. _A warrior's heart she had, this pirate princess. _

Putting the padding on the wounds, he wrapped the other end around her wrist, thus staunching the bleeding and covering the cuts. But how to fix the impromptu dressing? Drawing his dagger, he cut the lacings off his shirt. They easily fitted around her wrist, and he knotted the fastenings in two places to hold the bandage.

Letting go her hand, he suddenly realised the colours of the bandage: white on green, the colours of the Riddermark. His pulse sped up. _Had she noticed?_

Searching her gaze, he found her looking at him intensely, a sudden blush flushing her cheeks, as their eyes met.

oooo

"There is little we can do now, except keeping the boat as close to the starboard side of the channel as possible," Amrothos remarked, not seeming too happy about it. Éomer having taken his place at the tiller, Imrahil's son was bandaging his wrists with the cut-up pieces of his headscarf to give the joints some support against the permanent bumping of the rudder, while his sister stood at his side, never removing her eyes from their adversary, a deep frownon her face.

Feeling his heartbeat in his throat, Éomer perused her saturnine face. What was going on in her head and why? Had she really lain with Mardil? He did not believe it, he did not want to. She would not have fallen for such a vain git, would she? What bothered him, was not her sleeping with a man, but he could not stomach the idea of her having been fatuous.

He shook his head. He was being unjust. She had been so young... She might not have seen through his masquerade. Perhaps she had felt flattered, being sought after by such a good-looking man... And he was of one of the most influential houses of Gondor. But the whole thing did not make any sense. A marriage into the Prince's family would have been a chance no Gonorean noble was likely to let pass, even if he had not been interested in the princess as a woman.

Éomer snorted involuntarily. How could a sane man not be interested in her? No, had she lain with Mardil, he surely would have married her, for what reason so ever. And had he refused, as unlikely as that was, he would not have lived to tell the tale, given her brothers and the Prince himself. Yet here she was, accusing that bastard of preying on innocents, and hating him from the very bottom of her soul. There obviously was something he was not compassing. What could fill an intelligent and confident woman with that much hatred to risk her hand, just to vanquish that man?

"He's closing in on us," she finally stated grudgingly.

Amrothos shot the other boat a quick glance, before changing position with Éomer again. "It can't be helped. They can't pass us on the windward side the way we are sailing and there is little sense in trying on the lee. The only danger is that the buggers might try to knock off our rudder... Make it look like an accident," he added with a lopsided grin.

One of the sailors stood at the pursuing boat's prow, obviously checking the distance between the ships, but just as Éomer stepped up beside Lothíriel, someone else came forward, ducking below the outspread sail. Mardil of Edhellond! Éomer saw her body tense, her lips curving down in an expression of contempt. Looking over to them after some words with his man, Mardil recognised the princess and bowed gracefully, his right hand on his chest, his mouth in a mocking smile.

Fury uncoiling inside him like a hot snake, Éomer clenched his fists. He wished he had his spear at hand to spit this scum like the pig he was. Lothiríel's face seemed pale despite the slight tan, only high on her cheekbones two spots burned fiercely red, like pennants of her suppressed wrath. With two steps she went over to the ship's side and demonstratively spit overboard, before slipping under the foresail, moving to the prow.

"Éomer!" Amrothos' mien showed undisguised concern. With a jerk towards the prow he continued: "Go and have a look at her, I'm not feeling well if I can't see her while that bastard might at least try to pass."

Éomer made to follow her, but couldn't help asking: "Do you expect her to do anything desperate?"

Amrothos shook his head. "No, she's not stupid, but your presence will keep her standing, as she is never going to break down in front of anybody."

"So you think she has a reason to break down?" Éomer snapped, his voice hoarse with anger and alarm.

Amrothos rolled his eyes. "Don't ask! Go!"

_That damned pain in the arse, who did he think he was!_

Blind with fury the Rohir reached for the other man, only to find himself stopped by Amrothos' insistent voice. "Éomer, you can punch me to your heart's delight once we have won, but now go and keep an eye on her...please!" Éomer stopped in his tracks, embarrassment sweeping over him and he wordlessly made for the prow.

_Bollocks, what had got into him?_

Sure, Imrahil's son was a menace, but he was worried about his sister, so how could one expect him to purr politely? And he had accepted Amrothos as captain... only to go off at the first order! He raked his fingers through his hair... it was that damned uncertainty that made him jumpy. Cursed Gondorean propriety! Why didn't they put their cards on the table? It wasn't helping at all. That woman... She was her brothers' responsibility, he told himself, but Béma, he wanted her to smile, wanted her to trust him, wanted her... He shook himself. His brain didn't seem to work straight.

He found the princess standing at starboard, staring ahead, the ends of her dark headscarf fluttering in the gusty wind. Her lips moved, but with the wind blowing towards her, he could not understand her words. He thought her to be cursing again, easing her tension, muttering oaths in the Elven language, when suddenly she raised her hands to her chest, palms up, and he heard her utter the name Osse. She was praying! Praying to the volatile god of the angry seas!

He stepped up besides her, looking out on the water ahead. The course of the channel was easily distinguishable, its waters being a broad greyish, dark and somehow opaque belt in the green of the surrounding sea, criss-crossed by short, rippling waves. Suddenly something seemed to have caught her attention. Her body straightened and looking into her face, he saw her jaw tighten, as she squinted her eyes, never averting them from a certain spot on the horizon.

"It might work." Her voice was a mere whisper.

"What?" he demanded to know. Given her tension it had to be important. But she just shook her head.

"Never mind, it's just an idea. But it might be worth a try... Stay put, I'll go to ask Amrothos. I'll be back soon." Ducking under the boom, she disappeared towards the aft.

Scanning the stretch or turbulent water ahead, Éomer suddenly noticed, what she had been staring at: white streaks of sea-foam on the dark surge... rocks below the surface. Aeglir Caragon.

After just a moment she reappeared, a strange expression in her grey eyes. "They are very close behind us, and they might overtake us any moment, trying their luck before we reach Aeglir Caragon. Idiots...It's hazardous... but let them try. Our sails encumber their sight... they might be in for quite a nasty surprise. Well, what to expect from a captain who does not even navigate his own boat?" She gave a mirthless laugh. "But then it is rather his wife's boat than his own after all."

Éomer held his breath, as her words sank in. _His wife... that was a possible reason!_ _The scum had been married! _Slow and heavy coldness filled him like frozen lead. He would not only skewer that bastard, he would aim low, turning the spearhead in his entrails, before ripping it out again, gashing his abdomen!

"Éomer!" Her insistent voice kicked him out of his wrathful fantasies. "The way the sail is set, Amrothos can't see my signals, and he might not hear me shout aswell, with the wind coming from aft. I need your help." Handing him a thin line, she continued: "Now listen. Take the end of that rope..." A grin spread over her face at Éomer's doubtful look. "Don't worry, I'm not sending you outboard on that. We just need it for signalling. Take one end and position yourself midship. If I pull three times, you signal to Amrothos like that." She raised her hand, palm to port. "You got it?"

He nodded and turned to crawl back, when she clutched his shirt at the elbow. "Éomer, once you are sure he saw it, sit down, or better even lie down as fast as you can."

"So we're in for the same kind of dance?" Looking at her, he found his own grin mirrored in her eyes.

"No, not the same." Clasping his forearm in a warrior's embrace, she looked straight into his eyes. "This is going to be worse, and if we ground, don't jump head first, but do jump and try to keep clear of the derelict."

"And you?" Her mirth gone, she returned his gaze with unflinching eyes. Taking a step back she loosened her grip.

"Don't worry, I'll see the danger approaching and know what to do. Now hurry!" Reluctantly he ducked under the sail and took his position.

The other boat had approached even further. Amrothos was looking straight ahead, his stony face obscured by his wind-swept curls, streaming around his head like angry black snakes. Even not looking at the following boat, he realized Mardil's attack before Éomer did, feeling the ever so slight decrease of the wind pressure in their sails. Cursing he held on, keeping their course, not moving the tiller a single inch.

With untameable fury boiling up in his stomach, Éomer watched Mardil's boat sheering ever so slightly to the right, their prow now nearly level with their stern. Suddenly he felt the rope in his hand jerk violently, his hand shot up, giving the agreed signal, before he let himself drop on deck. Not one second too soon. Pushing the tiller with all his strength, Amrothos forced the boat over to the left, causing the sails to flutter wildly, dragging at the swishing lines, while their antagonists' boat shot past them on starboard.

The ship seemed rudderless for a terrifying moment, her hull heaving in convulsions, but having been prepared, Éomer felt no nausea this time, as he lay sprawled on deck, the spray sweeping over him. Being bucketed about by the jolting, rocking movements of the boat, he tried to compass what was happening, when suddenly the crash of splintering wood reached his ear, the snapping of ropes, lashing like whips, the thud of sails thrashing in the gusty wind, nearly drowning out the cries of dismay.

His heart beating a desperate tattoo, he crawled to the prow as fast as possible. To his utter relief Lothíriel was leaning at the prow, gazing at their opponent.

But of Mardil's proud vessel there only remained a clutter of planks, lines and sails, floating in the swirl of Aeglir Caragagon, while the splintered mast was canting over towards the grey waters like the neck of a dying crane.

**Annotations:**

**"riding out" **is the German term for this manoeuvre, literally translated into English. On modern sailing boats it is performed with a special safety gear that enables you to hold out much longer and keeps you from slipping overboard, but if you are mad enough (and lack the gear) you can do it that way. (I know! ;-))

As for Middle Earth: Though the Numenoreans and their descendants certainly were accomplished mariners, I cannot imagine them using anything like a special gear for the mere purpose of speed and fun, and so I have Lothíriel and Amrothos being just as mad as some old North-German biddy. ;-D**  
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**port side: **(nautical term): left-hand side of a boat, as seen by a person on board looking forward towards the bow (front)

**starboard: **(nautical term):right-hand side of a boat (see: port side

**aft: **(nautical term): At or near the back end of a boat

**Aeglir Caragon: **(Sindarin) Ridge of the Rocky Spikes


	9. Chapter 9

**Thank you for reviewing, subscribing, reading and lurking. I'm so happy because of your interest in this story; the number of readers made me squint with delight! ;-) **

**Special ta to silverswath: _"sleazeball" _was an up to now unknown expression I happily added to my collection; who knows when it might come in useful. ;-D  
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**This will be the last chapter before my well-deserved holiday, so enjoy reading; there will be no supply before the 15th August, so you'll have loads of time to review! ;-)  
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**Chapter 9**

When they finally approached the site of the wreckage, Erchirion's boat was already anchoring off the western edge of the reef, as close to the wreck as possible.

It had taken them quite some time and effort to reduce the sails and tack the boat around, due to current and wind direction, and all the time Lothíriel's expression had been unreadable. Though the manoeuvres certainly had demanded concentration, Éomer could not help the impression that she had paid them more attention than necessary, just to avoid his eyes.

Bringing their ship alongside, they anchored as well, careful to keep the anchor line short enough to forestall the vessel drifting into the derelict. Elphir was alone on board, and stepping over onto their boat, he informed them about the circumstances, his face grim. "Their hull got stuck on the ridge, so that's quite safe at the moment, but it might get dangerous if the thing floats free with the proceeding tide."

Glancing over to the foundered ship, Éomer noticed three men, yanking at the sail that lay deep in the water, dragged down by the weight of the soaked cloth. He could see little more than their heads and arms, bobbing up and down in the sway amongst the debris, no help for identification, as nearly all Godoreans seemed to have dark hair.

"Where's Erchirion?" Lothíriel's voice was calm, yet Éomer noticed a certain strain.

"Down over there helping." Jerking his head towards the wreck, Elphir continued to explain, his eyes watchful on his sister's face. "His men managed to jump off, but Mardil himself got jammed in the wreck, or entangled in some ropes. I'm not sure. He's under the sail and at the moment his head is above the surface."

"Roth!" Erchirion's voice caught their attention. Swimming the short distance towards their boats, Erchirion surfaced beside them, his face twisted in a wry half-smile. "Roth, lend a hand. He's stuck in the debris and we need to cut away the sail. The sailors are already exhausted."

Cursing softly, Amrothos drew his dagger and lowered himself into the water.

Out of the corner of his eyes, Éomer saw Lothíriel's jaw muscles bulge, but she said nothing. With a sigh, Elphir stepped beside her, putting an arm around her shoulder. "Loth, we can't just let him drown."

She shrugged, her face not giving away any of her emotions. "I know, Brother. You wouldn't... and anyway, there are witnesses."

Casting Éomer a sheepish look, Elphir squeezed her shoulders. " Loth, please..."

Without even looking at her brother, she shook off his hand. "Just stop it, Elphir. I know I have to accept it, but don't try to reason with me for once." Taking a ragged breath, she stepped aside, thus enlarging the distance, leaving her brother standing alone near the gunwale. Shooting Éomer an enquiring look, Elphir motioned towards his sister, and only after an assuring nod from the Rohir, did he climb back to his own boat.

In the meantime Amrothos and Erchirion had reached the wreck and chopping the lines they were able to reach, the four men were finally able to pull back the heavy sodden cloth far enough to free Mardil's head. The waves already reaching up to his chin he was stuck, the boom of the main sail weighing down his right shoulder, and though the sail covering his head was removed now, its weight lashed to the boom still kept him down. But it did not seem the only obstacle. Éomer realized that Mardil did not try to wriggle out from underneath the boom, so obviously he was trapped in some other way as well. He was conscious, and from the way his mouth moved, able to speak, but being too far off, Éomer could not understand, what he was saying. Due to the clutter of the entangled ropes and broken planks, there was no chance for the men to get closer to the Lord of Edhellond and Éomer could well see that one of the sailors was at the end of his tether, now and then clasping at a piece of wreckage, panting exhaustedly.

"Perhaps I should..."

"No!" Her tart voice stopped him. "It's enough that my brothers risk their health for that scum."

"She's right." Elphir confirmed. "More men would be of little use, because of the constricted space, and anyway I don't like the idea of you, the king of an allied country, being hurt or worse in such an action."

Éomer felt awkward, knowing too well, that he had not at all wanted to help Mardil, it had just been the sailor's obvious weakness that had triggered his offer. _What would she think of him? And why did that matter so much to him?_

The men in the water were not making any visible progress. The removal of the the boom proved impossible, as the wooden beam was entangled in the sail and the ropes. Pushing aside various planks and debris, they still tried to get Mardil free, having to stop now and then, because the pulling or cutting away of one piece often caused others to slide and endanger them.

"_I wish he would drown."_ Her angry remark of the morning springing to his mind, he glanced at her out of the corner of his eyes. Was it that, she had cried to Osse for? He felt his heart skip a beat, seeing her face, her cold and vengeful stare, the expression of a bird of prey, having cast its mind on a victim that had no chance of escape. Fascinated he turned to her, a cold sensation sweeping over his back, leaving the frisson of goosebumps in its trail. Thus he would imagine revenge come alive!

All of a sudden a nightmarish wail called his attention back to the wrack. The rising tide had now reached Mardil's mouth, causing him to struggle desperately in the futile attempt to free himself. The men in the water shouted to him, trying to bring him to terms, but to no avail. The wail was soon interrupted by retching sounds, as the rising water caused Mardil to choke. Closing his mouth, he threw his head back, trying to keep his nostrils over the surface, his wide-opened eyes in a frenzied stare, while two of the men frantically slashed at the ropes that held the sail, the two other trying to float it free. All around them pieces of the wreckage drifted, as the surge bit by bit loosened parts of the splintered hull.

Suddenly coming free, the boom shifted and rolled over, pressing against Mardil's neck. With a gurgling shriek his terrified face disappeared, being pushed just so slightly below the surface, the top of his skull still visible, jerking in convulsions amid a flush of bubbles, as the Lord of Edhellond choked out his life, until all movement had died away, his black hair floating in the swell like some exotic kind of seaweed.

The sound of her breathing in deeply, brought Éomer's attention back to Lothíriel. The fierce expression on her face was gone, and to his amazement she looked dazed and vulnerable, like a child, just woken from sleep, troubled by a nightmare. He had to fight back the unexpected urge that flared up in him to reach out, to hug her, hold her, whisper nonsense and caresses into her ear till she smiled...

"No!" Her scream pierced him like a dagger's stab. With a quick lunge he pulled her back from the gunwale, throwing his arms around her shoulders, gathering her back against his chest, her nails digging into his forearms, as she clutched at him.

"Erchi! Roth!" The back of her head nearly collided with his teeth, as she jerked up her head, screaming at the top of her lungs.

Cursing, Elphir rushed to the prow of his boat to have a better look at the derelict. Caused by the shifting of the boom, the wreck had moved, parts of the frazzled hull slipping off the crags, rolling over in a tangle of shivers in the swirl of Aeglir Caragon.

To his great relief Éomer spotted Erchirion and one of the sailors near their boats, but his heart sank, as his scanning of the surface brought no sight of Amrothos. Lothíriel was now motionless in his arms, her nails still embedded in his flesh, her body tense as a bowstring. He was afraid to let go, expecting her to jump overboard to aid her brother.

"No." A mere whisper now, it frightened him more than her screams. "No." She started to shiver in his arms, sagging against him, as her knees gave way.

With dismay Éomer watched the pool of red, billowing like a cloud over a dark shadow in the turquoise waters besides the channel. _Amrothos! Dratted valiant idiot!_ Pulling her closer, his body in a helpless rocking motion, he closed his eyes.

„There!" Her voice started him out of his misery like a gush of cold rain. A head appeared in the grey brackwater of the channel, an arm shot up waving, signalling, then arm and head disappeared again, the man diving.

Her elbow nudged him in the stomach. "It's Roth! Hurry, lengthen the anchor line. We are closer than Elphir. We'll let her drift further towards the channel."

While Éomer hastened towards the rope, Lothíriel took the tiller to keep the boat clear of the floating wreckage, and soon the vessel drifted towards the spot they had seen Amrothos diving. Gasping he surfaced again, dragging a limp body with him, trying to keep the man's head above water. Erchirion and the sailor reached him swimming there, and when the boat was close enough, Amrothos climbed aboard, in order to heave the man up, while Erchirion and the sailor pushed up the lifeless body, before turning back towards Elphir's ship.

_The other sailor. _Éomer could not hide his relief, as he helped Amrothos to pull the man on board. The sailor was unconscious but obviously alive, a bruise forming above his left ear, his tunic torn at his midriff, blood soaking his left side. They lowered the man on deck, and after a quick check for broken ribs, Lothíriel unceremoniously turned him on his belly. Ordering Éomer to stand over him and pull the man slightly up by his hips, she slapped the back of the prone body. A gush of sea water welled out of mouth and nose, and all of a sudden the man started retching.

Without a single word Amrothos went for the cuddy and coming back with a mop of rags and a wooden bucket, started to to clean the planks, while Lothíriel carefully cut the torn tunic off the sailor's chest. The injury looked nasty, the compete left side having been mangled by the cracked fragments of some beams, but the various cuts were not very deep, mostly being not more than extensive abrasions, except for one gash in the upper part of his ribcage, a deep wound with frazzled edges that bled profoundly. Folding a padding from her headscarf, Lothíriel pressed it on the wound with both hands to staunch the bleeding. By now, he man sported a big lump above his left ear, the blood of the effusion slowly spreading down his face, causing his temple and cheekbone to swell and blacken in an ugly bruise. He was conscious now, reacting to their questions, but feeling weak and dizzy.

"I don't know if he was retching just because of the brine or because he has a concussion." The princess' mien was somewhat worried, as she looked up, though her voice did not hint anything but professional determination. "But be that as it is, we need to bind his wound. Go and have a look if there is anything we can use as a bandage, will you."

Nodding, Éomer rose and made for the cuddy, but Amrothos' call stopped him. "Wait. There's nothing suitable there. We'd better wait for Elphir and Erchirion. If nothing else, we can confiscate their headscarves. Can you hold the dressing for a bit longer, Loth?"

Noticing his sister's nod, he turned to Éomer. "Come on, lend me a hand now at making the poor bugger a bit more comfortable."

Having finished cleaning the deck, Amrothos carried the bucket and the mop back and returned with the mat they had used on Tol Cobas and two thin cotton blankets. He then fixed the sheet rope of the main sail to keep the boom in the middle of the ship, and together the two men pulled the sail over it and spread it, thus creating a kind of tent to keep the injured sailor out of sun and wind. While Lothíriel pressed the padding on the wound, Éomer and Amrothos stripped the man of the remaining soaked clothes and then settled him on the mat and one of the blankets, covering him with the other. They spoke little, feeling subdued and exhausted, and only when Elphir's boat pulled up alongside, the atmosphere livened up and soon the man was bandaged properly.

"You'd better take him to Dol Amroth. It's as far as Edhellond from here, but the journey will be easier for him that way, as the tide is about to turn and you can sail with the current, which will provide much smoother waves than going against the current up the Ringló. He really doesn't look as if some more bumping would do him any good." Erchirion sounded even and convincing, yet Éomer could not help the impression he wanted them out of the way.

If Lothíriel thought alike, she never gave it away. "The healers of Dol Amroth are more competent anyway, so we better get going. What about Elphir and you?"

Avoiding her eyes, Erchirion jerked his head towards the channel, where some fishing boats were approaching. "We'll wait for them and then try to retrieve the corpse. We'll make for Edhellond afterwards and return to Dol Amroth tomorrow."

"Don't risk..."

"We won't," he interrupted her. "I know he's not worth it."

Taking his sister's hands, he smiled at her, a strangely serious smile, his eyes grave and concerned. "Be well Sister and rejoice," he said under his breath.

"I will." Her voice was calm and firm, and with a pang Éomer realised, how much it contradicted her statement.

Stepping up to the gunwale, she said good-bye to Elphir aswell, and while the brethren stayed behind, Éomer hoisted the anchor and slowly they started to sail down the channel towards Dol Amroth, using only the foresail.

While Amrothos had again taken the tiller, Éomer and Lothíriel sat down on deck beside the injured sailor. The waves were still choppy and now and then caused his head to bump hard on the mat. Frowning Lothíriel made for the cuddy and soon came back with some folded cloth of dark blue.

"My skirt," she explained with a wry half-smile, seeing Éomer's enquiring look. "I simply slip it over the trousers when going ashore."

No doubt, Imrahil's daughter was nothing but practical. What worried him was her quietness, as if she distanced herself from the world around her, withdrawing into herself. Shouldn't she be happy at her enemy's downfall? Shouldn't she rejoice as her wish had come true? He was at a loss but there was little time to ponder, because their course, sailing against the wind, demanded repeated tacking and kept them busy.

After a while they felt the turning of the tide, the waves smoothing and their boat speeding up, lying in the water much steadier now.

"I'm thirsty." The sailor's voice was hardly audible.

Lothíriel went to fetch the remains of the tea, but she hesitated to let the man drink. "It won't do, if he has a concussion," she said doubtfully.

"Let him drink," Éomer pleaded in a low voice. "The worst that might happen is that he'll vomit again, and as we are present, there is no danger he might choke on it."

She nodded thoughtfully. "You're right. He has lost quite an amount of blood anyway, so let's try if he can keep it down."

Kneeling behind the man's head, Éomer carefully lifted him, shoving his knees under the injured man's shoulders. Cradling his head in the crook of his arm, he brought him into a position to drink from the cup Lothíriel was holding out to him with small sips. Lowering the man slowly back on the mat, Éomer watched the princess, who was sitting cross-legged on deck, absentmindedly turning the cup in her hands.

Strong hands, deft hands with long fingers, fingers sporting the archer's callouses...yet the hands were moving as nervously as that poor bird's wings in the morning. Why? Hadn't she torn the net that had been entangling her, watching her predator's destruction? Fighting the urge to reach out for her hands, his fingers trailed the tattoo of bruises her nails had left on his forearm.

_Smile woman! _As if she had heard his silent plea, she suddenly looked up, and finding Éomer's gaze on her, blushed profoundly, though as before on Tol Cobas she did not lower her eyes, but held his gaze, proud and bold. He struggled to keep his face even, though he felt the suppressed smile tuck at the corners of his lips inexorably. She must have sensed it too, for suddenly she snorted in her typical way, and tossing her head back, turned away from him, looking out over the sea instead.

What a proud and powerful stance! Against his better knowledge he kept his eyes on her, drinking in her features. Gondorean, to be sure, but not the haughty courtier, rather the bold fighter now visible in her mien. Her dark brows were set in a frown like a black cloud over the grey of her eyes, her straight nose and her high cheekbones flushed by a slight sunburn, her lips firm, her chin raised in challenge, exposing her slender throat, while her hair, free of the headscarf now, hung over her shoulder in one long braid, some escaped jet-black strands fluttering in the salty wind.

_Béma, what would that mane look like, if set free... Black silk, billowing in the wind. _He silently upbraided himself. She needed support, not some frustrated horselord ogling her!

Soon the injured sailor fell asleep, and to Éomer's unacknowledged regret Lothíriel rose wordlessly and went to the prow. Filled with concern, he noticed the sag of her shoulders, wishing he could follow and hug her, giving her the comfort and support she obviously needed. He shook himself, and having made up his mind, turned to Amrothos at the tiller.

"Are we going to change course soon again?" His question caused Amrothos to cock an eyebrow.

"Why? Longing for some more honking?"The smirk in his voice was all but obvious.

Taking the teasing in his stride, Éomer shook his head. "No, not at all. Though having seen how apt you are at cleaning up the mess, I don't worry too much should the pukes get me."

Amrothos gave a lopsided grin. "That's the real problem. As soon as a man is too sick to puke outboard, he surely is as well too sick to clean the mess up. But tell me: What is bothering you?"

With a jerk of his head the Rohir indicated towards the prow. "Lothíriel. If we are just holding to the course, let me take the tiller and go and comfort your sister. She should not be standing there alone."

Suddenly serious, Amrothos nodded and went to join his sister.

Grimacing, Éomer watched him go. Obviously the princess was not the only one of Imrahil's offspring to hide different layers of personality.

He was surprised by the envy he felt, seeing Amrothos hug his sister and then step beside her, his arm around her shoulder. Sighing, he averted his eyes.

How many times had he stood like that with Éowyn on the terrace of Meduseld those last months? He would not have been able to cope with all the challenges the aftermath of the war had brought without her unwavering support. He would feel bloody lonely without her in Edoras. He shook his head... He was getting pathetic. Éowyn deserved all the happiness Middle Earth could give... and Faramir was a good man.

Looking at the billowing sail, his gaze was caught by the gulls, white specks, hovering in the vast blue sky above, cloudless, yet slightly hazy now from the heat of the day.

His first attempt at sailing, his first time on an island... Chuckling, he remembered Erchirion, the true-bread warrior, gathering sea lavender for his mother... How her soft brown eyes would smile at her son... Those soft eyes... why had they looked so sad this morning? He would ask her to send some of these bougainvilleas up to Emyn Arnen for Éowyn's garden. A beautiful garden it would be in but a short time, full of life, with Éowyn's children running around amidst the flowers, playing...

Changing his hands on the tiller, he turned his head eastwards, where the first of the long line of cliffs could be guessed in the haze. The warm wind tugged at his hair, blowing strands across his face.

By now the silk he had bought in Minas Tirith should have arrived in the Wold. Would she like it?Hrodwin had been sure of it, that day after Éowyn's wedding, when they had bought it in the cloth merchants' lane. The tour had only been meant as some diplomatic action: Woolen cloth from the Mark was to be sold there soon, so a visit by Rohan's king was something to tickle the merchants' pride. And to take Marshal Elfhelm, who was well known and highly honoured in Minas Tirith had only been logical.

He saw Lothíriel lean her head against Amrothos' shoulder, her brother's arms circling protectively around her.

Gytha was protected and loved by her family, he told himself, not able to push away that strange mixture of joy and sorrow he always felt, thinking of her. What would she say, opening the packet? Silk, green-golden Godorean silk. The very moment he had seen it at the merchant's stall he had known it would go splendidly with her hair. Those lovely red-golden waves... so much softer a colour than her mother's fascinating fierce red. He could not help a chuckle, thinking of the exquisite cloth and that delicate lawn, Elfhelm's wife had chosen for a shift and imagining Gytha wearing anything like that. Her first silken gown...when would she wear it? His Gytha, with her dirty suede breeches and crumpled tunics...but soon... Would he be present, as she wore it for the first time?

Raking his fingers through his wind-matted hair, he tried to shift his thoughts to something different, but to no avail.

His mind wandered back to that dear face with the much too wide mouth, the little pert nose, strewn with freckles and those incredible blue eyes, dark like a tarn in the mountain's shade. He should get her a gift from Dol Amroth aswell... something special. If they left the day after tomorrow there would be time to get her something. She had never seen anything but the Wold, yet just some years ahead she might go to live in Aldburg, come to Edoras even. Would she like it there? Hrodwin had ensured him she would. He enjoyed the thought to have her near, to cherish her, to be responsible for her, though Elfhelm had laughed that he would spoil her rotten. But then it was such a temptation to please her, just to see her joy... He would have liked to send her some of the delicious kinds of fruit they had in Dol Amroth, some of those peaches, he himself had liked so much: Juicy, sweet with that tempting smell of summer. What a treat that would be for his little girl!

Pulling out of his reverie, he saw Amrothos and Lothíriel coming aft, the princess' face calm and relaxed now, and suddenly the image before his inner eye shifted from a pink freckled face with laughing blue eyes to a darker one, one with a golden tan and grey eyes, sparkling with mirth, as the woman oblivious to the sensations she aroused licked the peach juice off her fingers.

He groaned inwardly. He had to stop that! He should really ask for that tavern... His throat went dry, as with a jolt he realised, that that no longer held any promise.

**Annotations:**

**As in the last chapter, there are some nautical terms that might cause the landlubbers amongst you some problems. So here are some explanations; I just hope I didn't forget any.**

**to tack around:** to turn around

**boom:** pole running aft from the mast; the lower part of the main sail is attached to it

**tacking: **working to windward with the wind first on one side of the boat, then on the other (see: to beat about; chapter 4)

**Gytha: **(Rohirric/Anglo-Saxon) female name, meaning "Gift"


	10. Chapter 10

**Being back home from out of the wilds, I'd like to thank all of you for your encouraging comments. I hope you will enjoy the next chapter as well ... and don't forget to tell me so! After having experienced the limitation set by age and overweight in the mountains of the Vidda, I need some stroking to polish up my ego. ;-)**

**Chapter 10**

Berthing at Amrothos' usual place at the jetty, they found the quay quite crowded, though most of the people kept a respectful distance to the guards of both, Dol Amroth and Rohan, who approached as soon as Amrothos had moored his boat. While the injured sailor was laid on a waggon to be taken to the Houses of Healing, the princess slipped into her skirt under the canopy of the sail, and the three of them disembarked. It was only when he put on his boots that the dull pain below his toe reminded Éomer of his mishap on Tol Cabas

From out of the crowd little Melwen and her parents stepped forward, and Éomer couldn't help a grin: The little girl had been given a thorough scrub, her face now shining all pink and flustered, her unruly curls had been braided and she wore what obviously was her best dress. Holding the rag-doll with both hands, she walked up to Éomer, not without shooting Éothain a questioning look first and receiving a reassuring nod and a friendly grin from the captain of the Rohirric guards.

"Here!" Unceremoniously she stuffed the doll into Éomer's hands, and with amusement he noticed that it had been washed, too.

Having thanked the little girl, he looked up, nodding his acknowledgement to her parents. The young woman blushed slightly, while her husband, a deeply tanned, wiry man with dark eyes and a scar across his left cheek that gave him a daring appeal, gave him a broad grin, before bowing respectfully. Holding the doll in his left hand, Éomer turned to leave the jetty, when Melwen's angry voice stopped him. "Not like dat!"

Surprised he looked into her agitated face, when she grabbed the doll from his hand. "You mufn't carry her like dat. Let me show you." Pulling rigorously at his arm, she caused him to bend down to her and placed the doll in the crook of his arm. Satisfied with her job she stepped back.

_Bema's horse! _That was just what he needed: The King of Rohan making a laughing-stock of himself, carrying a rag-doll in his arms through Dol Amroth. Éothain desperately tried to avoid his gaze and display a deadpan expression, but the deepening colour of his face showed clearly that he was on the edge of bursting out laughing.

"My lord, may I?" The calm and cool voice betrayed no trace of mischievousness. Without much ado, Lothíriel took the doll from Éomer, and placing it in the crook of her left arm, turned to Melwin, with an air of conspiracy. "You see, I think I shall carry her. Men simply are not good at some things."

The little girl nodded. "But he haf to learn. You better show him, or will you go wid him to Rohan?"

"I will certainly teach him, don't you worry." The princess' voice was still even, while everyone around, safe for Melwin's parents, was trying hard not to laugh.

"He'd better do what you tell him." The girl underlined her statement with a vigorous nod. "Daddy always does what Mama tells him."

That did it! Laughing the people now turned to Melwin's father, who took the mirth in his stride, while his wife blushed furiously. "Why, it's a matter of intelligence," he retorted. "Happy wife – happy life." Grinning he pulled his wife close, while the bystanders whistled and congratulated him on his matrimonial life.

Something poked Éomer in his ribs. "Get going!" Lothíriel's voice was a merely audible whisper. Without looking at him, the princess used the opportunity to leave, smiling at everyone in a friendly way, and soon they had left the harbour area behind, and were walking down the street climbing up to the castle.

Out of the corner of his eyes Éomer watched her, bearing herself proud and straight, walking with a grace and determination that would silence any onlooker, carrying the doll in the crook of her arm, as if it was the most self-evident thing to do for a Princess of Dol Amroth.

His gaze slid to the doll's featureless face, noticing the outworn spots, where the cloth had been abraded by constant touch. A featureless yet well-loved face, a gift to a mourning girl that had obviously fulfilled its purpose to keep her from despair.

The pang of realisation nearly made him stop in his tracks, the thudding of his heart about to burst his ribcage.

_A gift to a mourning woman … something to hold on to in the chill of those long lonely nights... something to keep despair at bay._

Clenching and unchlenching his fists, he tried to calm himself, keep his breath even, telling himself it was nothing ... nothing but one of the cruel jokes of fate. There were no similarities, it was just coincidence.

He had not chosen the name, because he had regarded her as as gift he had given Ethelfleda, but rather one he had been given... even if it had meant nothing but the right to acknowledge her as his daughter.

He tried to concentrate on the paving stones under his feet, the sound his boots made, the slight pain below his toe, clinging to it like to a safety line to reality, but his thoughts went spinning.

He had known about Ethelfleda's grief, had told himself a thousand times that she had not treated him the way she had light-heartedly, had even tried to flatter himself with the thought that she had chosen him, but his heart had never been able to grasp the monstrosity that she only had seen him as some kind of vessel, a mere mean to gain what she longed for: Cedric's child, begotten three years after the warrior's death.

How could it be that now, years later, looking at a featureless rag-doll's face in the evening sun of Dol Amroth, his heart suddenly understood the guilt and pain, the desperate longing that had driven Ethelfleda, understood, that in the frozen prison of her soul there had been no room, no thought, no consideration for the lad who went for his first battle? She had not seen _him_ at the Blessing ... for her he had been Cedric, the man she had sent into battle unblessed and unforgiven.

He breathed deep, surprised at the feeling of living air streaming into him, expanding his lungs. Whatever he had constructed in his brain all those years to cope with the branding hurt of rejection became redundant this very moment. Who knew the ways of the gods? Perhaps she was Cedric's daughter, but she was his ward, his responsibility, his Gytha.

For the first time in years he could think of her without regret, remember Ethelfleda's smiling face, as she bent down nourishing her child without envy. Had it not been a gift to see her come out of her mind's darkness again to warmth and life? Had he ever expected her to love him?

He hadn't! He realized the truth like the stab of a dagger: When Elfhelm had told him that Ethelfleda had conceived at the Blessing, he had not even been able to remember her face. He had felt confused, proud and intimidated at the same time... but his feelings had centred around himself, himself and the unborn child, while the woman had been a mere shadow at the edge of his consciousness. He had never doubted her to marry him, had she not called him to her bed? Had he not kindled the life that grew within her?

And then she had told him of her dream... of the reason why she had lain with him at the Blessing. He still felt the chill on his back. How could a living man compete with the dead?

His pride had been hurt, when she told him, she would not be his wife, pointing out his age and inexperience to him, and only hurt pride and stubbornness had made him demand to acknowledge the child as his.

He smiled, lost in remembrance. That had been the best thing he had ever done out of stubbornness in his whole life. The moment he had seen the child, he had lost his heart to that tiny being, and he had felt the magnitude of Edelfleda's generosity to share this with him. Gytha... never had a child been named truer than her.

_No, fate had not been cruel, not to him._

A sudden stop at the gate, due to some riders leading a small flock of horses out to pasture, caused his gaze to wander back to Lothíriel, a slender figure clad in plain dark blue, strands of black hair escaping her simple braid fluttering around her face in the warm wind, yet every inch of her posture proclaiming the Princess of the Realm. How had he not realised it before, that for all the difference she so much resembled Éowyn? Squinting her eyes at the sun, she brushed back one of the loose strands that were blown into her face, and his eye fell on her bandaged wrist, that evidence of her strength, stubbornness and passionate determination. Green and white, the colours of Rohan, and on the outer edge of the joint a little red spot caught his attention: blood soaking through the bandage, where the rope had bitten deep, cutting the flesh to the bone.

A little red spot on green, like a tiny flower of life, blossoming out on the plains of the Mark.

ooo

Éomer felt strangely relieved when they reached the inner bailey and the siblings went straight for Imrahil's study, Lothíriel promising to have the doll put in his room. He needed some distance, some time to think, needed to be alone, to sort out the turmoil inside him. He longed for something familiar, something plain and secure in the whirl of this day. A hack! There should be enough time to take Firefoot for at least a short ride, up to the shadowy wooded ridges north of the town.

"I'll take Firefoot for a ride before dinner," he told Éothain, already heading for the stables. "All these days he has been under-worked, I'm afraid he has built up quite a foul mood in the meantime."

Éothain's answer was a sound between laughter and grunt, while Folcred pointedly tried to avoid his king's gaze. Askance, Éomer stopped, slewing his friend round by the elbow. "What is it?"

"Whoa, Éomer King!" The smirk in Éothain's voice was unmistakable. "You should rather worry about your own mood instead of your charger's."

"Should I?"

The icy tone in his king's voice was totally lost on Éothain. Chuckling, he threw Éomer a sidelong glance, examining him with mock-concern from head to toe, before he finally concluded in a matter-of-fact statement: "Well, at least at the moment he is probably much more relaxed than you. And I don't think he needs any kind of work-out or will even be up to it. We just recaptured him some half an hour before they sent word that you were about to enter port... and he had scooted off with that mare while I accompanied you to the port in the morning and been on the rampage the whole day."

Éomer groaned. "And who was the moron to let him slip? Winfrid?" It was the boy's first time to accompany the king as his squire and he was not up to Firefoot's antics yet.

Surprisingly serious, Éothain shook his head. "Don't blame it on Winfrid. The boy stood no chance with Firefoot, and I doubt that I myself would have been able to hold him, once the dirty bugger got wind of the mares, especially the one on heat. They just hadn't known the mares were on the upper meadows, otherwise they would have kept out of there."

He continued with a shrug. "And anyway, no harm is done, as Imrahil took no offence, but just said that he actually liked grey ones."

"Imrahil?" Éomer choked. "Don't tell me it was Imrahil's mare that ruttish oaf went for."

"Ah well..." Éothain's hesitation predicted worse to come. "As a matter of fact it was his Lady's mare..."

They had reached the gate of the stables by now and Éomer motioned dismissal to Folcred, who seemed more than relieved to be allowed to disappear. There was no one in the alley as they entered the stables.

"I see, the culprits have taken cover." Despite his temper, Éomer could not help a grin.

Éothain cleared his throat. "I told them to. But look here: No harm is done, Imrahil is not miffed, and the others would yak anyway, so let them get stuffed. It's time we went home. Sure that trade agreement is important, but Bema's balls, the negotiations are finished, you did the Mark proud, everything is fine, and here you are with a temper like a warg with piles! What is bothering you?"

"Nothing."

"Nothing?" Éothain snorted. "Sure, and pigs can fly. That bloody crock of yours has more brain than you, Éomer Éomundsson! You're simply off balance. Let's go to some tavern tonight, find yourself some buxom wench and have a decent fuck, and you'll see..."

"Shut it!" He didn't shout, but the cold fury in Éomer's voice made his friend stop in mid-sentence.

"You're serious?" Éothain's voice showed all the uncertainty he felt.

Éomer clenched his fists. He wanted to be alone, he needed to be alone, he... "Just sod off, Éothain, will you?" Without looking at the surprised captain of his guard, he walked to Firefoot's box.

"Éomer..." Éothain's face was not discernible in the back light of the open door, but his voice was sober. "I'm sorry, Éomer, I didn't mean to plague you, I just didn't know you had got it that bad."

ooo

One look over the low door of Firefoot's box proved the truth of Éothain's statement: That horse clearly was not keen on any exercise at all and most probably not up to it as well. The big grey stood dozing with half-closed eyes, his head lowered and his bottom lip slightly drooping, baring his large, yellow teeth in what could well be taken for some kind of equine grin, his whole body an example of well-earned and highly relished exhaustion.

He did not even lift his head, when his master entered the box, just snuffled contentedly as Éomer scratched him between the ears. Stroking the strong dappled neck, Éomer could not help a chuckle. They had obviously groomed and curried the stallion, as his big frame shone spotlessly, his dark mane and tail sporting not a single tangle.

"Dyslic scand." Pulling the stallion's velvety ears affectionately, Éomer continued to examine the horse, more to do something than thinking it necessary. Firefoot plainly was just fine, satisfaction oozing out of every pore.

"Wished it was as easy for me," he told his dozing charger, "get a mare into your nose and have her."

"_Didn't know you had got it that bad"._.. _Éothain was a plonker._

He had not talked to him, so were did that oaf of a captain derive such ideas from? Had he been so obvious? But then, what had been obvious? He shook his head. It was useless to fool himself, he was impressed by Imrahil's daughter, but what did he really feel for her? Desire? No doubt he wanted her – had done so from the moment he had seen her walk up the beach of Tol Cobas, but then that was where the problem started: Being the woman she was, Imrahil's daughter, his friend's sister, she was not one to dally with...and she would not put up with it anyway.

But there was so much more to it than mere lust. Her courage, her determination, her intelligence, her comradeship, her care... He groaned. That woman was an enigma – and yet she had spoken to him so plain, so open-minded.

_Béma's horse, he had talked to her for the first time in his life, and what had they talked about? Babies!_

This was madness. And he had wanted to go on talking to her... Talking! To a stunning, challenging woman with long, well-muscled legs, exposed to his eager eyes, as the wind swept the loose trousers against them. And that risky ride outboards, her wet garment clinging to her body, revealing delectable curves... the adrenalin of the situation... and what had he felt? Care and admiration!

He rubbed his palms over his face with a groan_. He was getting old_.

Why was everything so obfuscating? His fingers raked through his hair, only to get stuck in the tangles, matted by wind and and sea-spray. He snorted. Obviously his horse was not only in a better mood but also better groomed than himself. He needed a bath before making his appearance at the dinner table.

But first of all he had to clear his head. He wished he could solve his confusion like an ordinary drunkenness by just popping his head into a bucket full of cold water. He felt kind of dizzy, as if he had had too much ale, or rather mead, strong, sweet and utterly intoxicating...

Her straightforwardness, her smile... sure, seeing a woman truly smile had always pleased him... but where did this urge come from? This wish she might go on smiling for ever..

Realisation hit him like a dwarven axe: "_for ever" – _that was the point!

All this chaos of admiration, lust, care and friendship could not be untangled, as all these feelings entailed each other, and trying to separate one of it would devaluate the others, like pulling out a single tread of a tapestry would unravel and destroy it. But that was not the problem that was really bothering him. What made him edgy was the unconscious fear that it would end. He wanted that woman, all of her – and for the rest of his life.

Swearing under his breath he turned to leave Firefoot's box. Had Éothain seen through him that easily? Had he really "got it that bad"? Did he love her? Impossible! He had known her but one day and love was nothing that dropped out of thin air. No, he certainly did not love her ... but he would like to. He swallowed hard, trying to keep himself from drifting into daydreaming about enticing lips, smiling at him, her lithe body in his arms …

He was no longer just Éomer Éomundsson of Aldburg, he had to clear his head, to follow reason. He was responsible for the Riddermark, but that only fuelled his imagination. It would be so fitting – she would be so fitting!

Éaldread would fall over himself at the news of Rohan's King taking a wife … she was an able diplomat, intelligent, a scholar with the courage of a warrior, the highest- ranked woman of Gondor except the Queen. His councillors would be delighted. He thought he could already hear their eager statements:

"_A treasure of Gondor, given to Rohan in acknowledgement for courage and sacrifice, a token of_ _equality of both nations, a compensation for the loss of the King's sister._ "

Like an exchange of hostages … he felt his bile rise. This was just disgusting! How could anybody think about her like that, think about Éowyn like that … And yet people in both countries would see it that way... and that would advance the relation between Gondor and Rohan, would stop the mouths of those of his nobles who complained about Éowyn's marriage, that caused her to leave the Mark. And was he himself any better? Here he was, considering the political effects, and he didn't even know what she was thinking, and more important, feeling about it.

_Blasted kingship! _

He furiously kicked the bucket beside Firefoot's box. Why had everything to be so complicated? He knew she would make a competent queen, but first of all he wanted her as his wife, to have her near, see her smile, listen to her clever banter, touch that tempting body. How would it feel to lie with her? She did not seem to do anything half-heartedly – would she be as passionate in love as she was in hatred?

_Hatred … Curse Mardil of Edhellond! _

Yet what was it really, she hated that human scabies so violently for? What if that ork-spawn had destroyed her confidence in men? He slammed his fist at the partition panel of the boxes in helpless frustration, but then checked himself. She had said that she wanted children of her own, had even admitted she would agree to an arranged marriage to have them ... Was it that they would have … an arranged marriage? Would she merely put up with him to have children? Would he be able to accept that? Again? But then it would be different. They would live together, he would see the children grow.

He felt the sudden chill that had spilled over his back cease. Was it not his task to woo her, to make her feel comfortable, to show he cherished her? They trusted each other, cared for each other... was that not enough? Would that be enough for him?

He leaned his forehead against one of the massive cedar beams that held the stable roof. It was of no use to try to lie to himself: It would not, not for him and neither for her. But it would be a beginning.

Breathing deep, he shove himself away from the beam. He would not leave it to chance. He would not leave her to some pompous Gondorean noble twat.

He shook his head, smiling lopsidedly. He was making an idiot of himself. Imrahil would never give her to someone who did not esteem her. She had nothing to fear. She would not need him to be rescued from any repulsive suitor.

The noise of his stallion stirring in his box caught Éomer's attention, but when he went to check, he found the grey had just shifted his weight to rest a different leg.

_Lucky bugger!_ Perhaps he should reconsider Éothain's suggestion, even if Erchirion was not there to show him that louche tavern, it would be no problem to find a willing wench in the harbour quarters, and a little romp in the sack at least would take his mind off that alluring legs. He had better go and find his captain.

Even before he could turn round to leave the stables he realized he was deceiving himself. It would not help at all. He would bonk some woman, easing his body, while his imagination would make her Imrahil's daughter. His stomach tightened with sudden nausea.

_Ethelfleda's face rapt in ecstasy, as he spilled into her, her body arching against him in response as she tumbled over the brink of passion, clinging to him, calling out her lover's name again and again... Cedric!_

He had known that Ethelfleda had been desperate, yet no weapon could have hurt as much as the realisation to be a mere substitute. Ethelfleda had believed him to be Cedric that fey moment, and perhaps the gods had taken pity on her and her desperate grief, but he? He would just cheat in mean egoistic play-acting to satisfy his rut.

He straightened his shoulders. No way he would go! For what she gave to a man's body even the lowliest slut deserved to be treated honestly and according to her body's demand. It was give and take, not take and pretend.

ooo

He realised someone coming up the alley towards him, but he did not bother to look. His aim set, his mind was clear again. Lothíriel of Dol Amroth. He wanted her – and he wanted her to want him. Whatever she might feel for him, he had to assure her that he was serious, that she was safe with him... He was to leave in a few days, and he knew he had to talk to her before leaving, to find out.

"Wool-gathering again?"

The brisk voice behind his back was the last thing he wanted to hear. Amrothos! Where had that pest come from again? Turning around, he saw the carrots in Amrothos' hands. Following his line of sight, Amrothos grinned. "Just thought to have a look at the hero of the day and show him my devotion."

_Hope he will have some of your fingers, too._ Éomer's mood was not at all improved by the hint at his stallion's behaviour.

Stepping beside Éomer, Imrahil's son looked over the the low door into Firefoot's box. Holding out the carrots, he crooned softly, but the big grey did not open his eyes any wider, and only when Amrothos held the carrots right under his mouth did he condescend to taking the offered treat, munching it slowly.

"Blimey, how can anyone shag himself into such a stupor?" Amrothos voice showed genuine admiration. Chuckling he continued: "Father was actually mighty pleased to hear of your nag's escapades."

_Don't take the bait! _Forcing himself to an impartial tone, Éomer shrugged. "Just let's hope the lines fit. He's quite large-framed, and for a lady's mare he might not be a first-rate choice."

"Oh, don't you worry. She's my mother's, but Mother never rode her herself. Actually she's of the same line as Erchirion's gelding. Mother has the right touch breeding horses."

Éomer frowned. "Well, let's just hope Firefoot didn't go against her breeding goals."

"Against her breeding goals?" Amrothos' chuckle resembled a hiccup. "She laughed her head off when she heard of it. Couldn't fit any better, she said."

At least one thing that went well, Éomer thought, avoiding Amrothos' gaze_. _Let's see what the princely couple of Dol Amroth had to say to the next onslaught of Rohan. He wanted to get rid of Amrothos and slowly made for the stable door.

Ambling alongside, Imrahil's son took up the conversation in a most casual tone, mischief sparkling in his eyes. "By the way, Horselord, as Erchirion told me you seem to be so interested in languages, do you know the meaning of the name Melian in the common speech?"

_Back to "Horselord", are we? _Éomer clenched his fists, suppressing the wish to cause some permanent change in the prince's features. "You certainly will not fail to enlighten me."

The smirk that now bloomed all over Amrothos face confirmed his worst suspicions._ "_Oh, I won't. You see "melme" means "love", and "anna" means "present" in Quenja."

_He doesn't know … he can't know! _With difficulty Éomer managed to control his mien, pretending unconcernedness. "Well, perhaps I should be glad it was given to me by a four-year old, just to keep me from gossip, though it really is a lovely present."

Amrothos' smirk deepened. "Yep, and one my sister was quite pleased to carry for you."

With utmost self-command Éomer kept his fists down, sure this time they would grab Amrothos' throat instead his tunic. His jaw set, he stepped up to Amrothos, till their noses nearly touched. Though built leaner, Imrahil's son was of the same height as the Rohir, and his light-coloured eyes did not show any sign of intimidation.

"Git!" Éomer's voice was a mixture of groan and hiss, as he stared into the still mirthful eyes. "You can jab at me, if you think it necessary in your weird sense of fun, but I swear, I'll break every single bone in your bloody frame, if you ever embarrass Lothíriel again."

Amrothos raised an enquiring eyebrow. "Is it a special Rohirric trait, or are you just overreacting a bit? What did I say to embarrass her? She carried that doll for you, so what? She's my sister, remember?"

Not ready to let go, Éomer insisted: "That does not give you the right..." He stopped abruptly, realising that Amrothos was having him on, and that he himself had swallowed the bait greedily. It took all self-command he could muster, not to shove Imrahil's brat into the forage chest.

_He should have throttled that nuisance on Tol Cobas!_

"Don't you worry, Horseking." Amrothos' grin was about to split his face. "I won't tell anybody about a certain interesting behaviour of a certain Rohir on a certain beach."

Throwing up his hands in frustration, Éomer took a step back. "Just fall on your sword, will you!"

Laughing merrily, Amrothos made for the door. "I won't. Shutting up for your sake is one thing, but any further action would just cause too much trouble."

Having reached the stable door, he turned round, to face Éomer again, still grinning, but his eyes serious now. "I may be a git, Éomer of Rohan, but she is my sister, and as such my responsibility."

With that he left the stable, and Éomer took a deep breath. He was furious, but his mind crystal clear now. There would be no delay anymore.

Amrothos' responsibility! He snorted in disgust. Not for long if he could help it!

**Annotations:**

**Gytha:** (Rohirric/Anglo-Saxon female name) Gift**  
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**dyslic scand:** (Rohirric/Anglo-Saxon) stupid scoundrel


	11. Chapter 11

**Thank you so much for all your encouragement, especially for your comments, you make it difficult for me to get the idiotic grin off my face! ;-)  
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**Well, for all those who are getting impatient: From now on all the different odds and ends (like in sub-plots) will be woven together and you will be able to understand all the different allusions in Éomer's internal monologue and the hints on some nasty events in Lothíriel's past, though I'm afraid that you will have to have a bit more patience till the "Blessing" will become clear; but it certainly will, I promise.  
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**Chapter 11**

Éomer was not sure what had brought him up to the battlement, though he recognised a fluttering longing deep inside for a breath of fresh air, an untrammelled view and a moment of privacy. The first step had been made, and he knew that it had been by far the easiest part of his undertaking. If Imrahil had been surprised by his request, he had concealed it well. As well as he had not at all concealed his gratification with what the King of Rohan had to pledge.

The sky had already darkened, the sun setting faster than in the emnets of the Mark, but the sea still glowed with some strangely dimmed light, like a memory of the day's blaze. Except for the guards on the look-out posts the paved area seemed empty and only when he had walked around the base of the look-out turret did he notice the woman standing near the parapet. Her back was turned towards him but he immediately recognized Lothíriel, erect and proud, yet entirely forlorn, looking out over the bay. He hesitated, for a split second convinced she could hear his pounding heart, and then walked up to her. As he came to stand beside her, she addressed him without turning her head towards him.

"Tonight's festivities have been called off." A wry smile twisted the corners of her lips, while her eyes stayed grave. "As it would have been a shame for the already prepared food to go waste I have ordered it to be distributed to the soldiers and servants."

"That no doubt will be a very welcome addition to the keg of ale the stablemaster ordered to be fetched the very moment he learned of Mardil's death," Éomer replied, keeping his voice as level as possible.

"Oh, did he?" Though she didn't turn her face to him, he could see the smile spreading over her face. "Dear old Morion. Well, some people at least will feel like celebrating."

"And you, Lothíriel?"

She shrugged. "I don't know. I've wanted to see him dead these last five years, and I certainly felt a rush of satisfaction when he foundered ... but I had always imagined I would feel different, once he was dead."

"Like what?" His voice was low, full of concern.

"More joyful, triumphant … but I merely feel … relieved, as if I finally have finished a vexatious task." She turned to look at him.

He took her right hand in both of his large ones and stroked the bandaged wrist gently with his calloused forefinger. _The wet rope, twirled twice around her wrist, ripping skin and flesh ... blood mixed with sea spray trickling down her outstretched arm ... Her proud figure at the prow of the boat, raising her voice to Osse …_What had made her desire that man's death in such a vehement way, ignoring pain and danger?

"You prayed for him to try that manoeuvre." It was a statement rather than a question. She simply nodded and pulled her hand out of his fingers.

"Yes, and I would have gladly paid with my life for my prayer granted." Her eyes went back out to the bay. "I'm sorry, Éomer, I was reckless and endangered your life. We escaped from crashing into the reef ourselves only by a hair's breadth. I simply stopped thinking, once the idea had got hold in my brain. I was so sure he would be mad enough to try the manoeuvre, and the shallows being so near ..."

"Well, as it is, Amrothos understood immediately what you were up to and approved of it. So who am I to chastise you. I don't know anything about boats."

"That's just the point. Elphir wanted you to be on board with Amrothos and me to keep us from risking our heads. He expected us to be responsible, to care for your well-being, not to involve you into some pirate charge. Amrothos knew the risk, you didn't know in what danger I put you."

Éomer looked down at her serious face and shook his head. "Nay, Lothíriel of Dol Amroth, I knew of my danger before I stepped aboard. I did not take that oath idly: _It's make or break_. Your face was plain to read and your brother I've seen fighting on the Pelennor. If there was any chance to kill that scum off you would go for it. And I have to admit I am impressed by the way you did it."

"You are?" She raised an enquiring eyebrow .

"Yes," he nodded. "You see, we train our warhorses to give battle as keen as our riders, and many a foe has been trampled to death by a charger defending his master, but I didn't know the people of Dol Amroth used their boats as weapons."

She nodded. "We certainly do. But as any sharp weapon in incautious hands a boat can be dangerous to an unwary sailor."

"So we were in danger to sink?"

She nodded. "We certainly were, and not only at Aeglir Caragon but aswell before, when we overtook Mardil. That's the reason I climbed outboard. I tried to adjust the balance point. As a matter of fact Amrothos' sloop is rigged a bit strongly, which makes her fast on the one hand but on the other she's always on the brink of capsizing." A sudden grin spread over her face and she added: "Just reacting like some skittish horse."

Éomer laughed. "Sure enough I felt her bucking when we struck the channel. And at that moment I would have preferred not to be dangling outside." Turning serious, he added: "You should not have risked your hand."

She merely shrugged. "And you should not have climbed outboard. I should not have told you to. You had never done it before, it was quite dangerous to try it for the first time in such a situation."

"And what if I hadn't?" He tried to avoid looking at her bandaged wrist.

Inhaling deeply, she closed her eyes: "We would not have been able to get enough speed to overtake him."

"So it was useful and worth it." Willing his voice to sound even, he leaned his back against the stones of the parapet and faced her. "There is no battle without risk, and the Rohirrim know that quite well. You seized the obvious opportunity, knowing your enemy's weakness... no Rider of the Mark will blame you for that."

"Yet they would surely not approve of my jeopardising their king's life." Staring out over the bay again, she brushed a wayward strand of hair out of her face.

Éomer shrugged. "They don't know. But still they would understand, knowing the thrill of battle running through their veins, blending out any thought save the will to kill." He looked down at his hands. How could he make her understand?

"Did you know I nearly got my entire army hacked down, because the battle madness took me on the Pelennor when I believed my sister Éowyn slain? But for the arrival of Aragorn, Arathorn's son we would all be dead." Lifting his head he took in her features. Finally he spoke again. "I was lucky, Lothíriel, and so were you."

"Yet I have not thanked you for your support."

He bowed his head in acknowledgement. "There's no need for it, as I merely served as ballast, as Amrothos didn't fail to point out I would, and did little to forward your revenge. I'm just grieved that I was not able to prevent the things that made you long for it all these years."

She turned her back to him and he saw her shoulders rise as she sighed deeply. "How come you believe in my right to want him dead, to even kill him myself, to wish him a slow and painful death?"

He felt his breath catch and was embarrassed at the hoarseness of his voice when he finally answered. "I don't know about any details, Lothíriel, but I sensed your fathomless hatred. There are still many things I do not understand, as this day surely has given me a lot to think, but I don't need to know them to feel that you have any right."

She slowly turned, and though her body still radiated tension, her face was totally calm now, her grey eyes, darker than the gathering dusk, looked at him with plain graveness. How different she was, with her black hair and that dark grey eyes, and yet, how much she reminded him of Éowyn.

He took her hand again, cold, small but firm, with strong, slender fingers. "Lothíriel, I have a younger sister I would like to pamper and guard, yet she is strong as tempered steel and might well outmatch me in endurance... it's the same with you and your brothers. Whatever made you thirst for that man's death gave you as well the strength to accomplish it, and I know they are proud of you ... and so am I. Whatever he did to you, you avenged yourself like a true shielmaiden." He gave her a lopsided smile. "Maybe Gondor's nobles judge differently in such a case, but I'm a barbarian of the North, and I admire your attitude." Rising her hand to his lips, he brushed a kiss over her knuckles.

She blushed, smiling that wonderful contradictory smile, while she never lowered her eyes. He felt his heart rise. _Now for it! _"Lotíriel, there are more differences between Rohan and Gondor ..." He did not know how to proceed, just wanted to wrap her into his arms, hold her and protect her against anything that might come up. He wanted her to trust him. "Lothíriel, I spoke to your father, I asked for his permission to..." _Wrong! _The very moment he said it, he knew he had blundered.

Jerking back her hand, she stared at him coldly. "You spoke to my father! I see. It does not matter what I think. There does not seem to be too much difference between Rohan and Gondor anyway!"

"You got me wrong." Leaving the parapet he stepped closer. "I just wanted you to be sure that I'm serious, after you had been hurt by that ..." The display of fury that shot over her features for a split second, before she regained her mask of aloofness, silenced him.

When she finally spoke, her voice dripped with contempt. "My Lord Éomer, I thank you for your concern, but I certainly do not wish for your pity."

All of a sudden, something in him snapped. "Pity?"

With one step he closed in on her, grabbing her by her shoulders. "Pity? Woman, are you mad? No Rohir would pity you, let alone I, who have seen you act like a true warrior. Any Eorling would be proud to call you his wife. How can you dare to belittle yourself, just because you have lain with a man? Who cares if you are a virgin, safe some impotent Gondorean pansy? You are the Princess of the Realm, you are intelligent, you are brave, you are beautiful, how can you doubt that any entire man would but want you at his side?"

She blinked, but regaining her composure at once, she lifted her chin in a challenge. "And because of all of that, you my Lord have decided to propose to my father." She snorted. "The only thing that is missing now in this farce, is you telling me that you love me after one day's acquaintance."

Éomer felt hurt, but there was something in her stance that let him hesitate. She was tense like a bowstring, and though she kept her shoulders squared, he felt the slight tremble she could not suppress. She had been caring and friendly to him, so what was it that made her hit low deliberately? What was behind this mask of cold pride and condescendence? Slowly taking his hands off her shoulder, he shook his head. It was of no use to lose his temper, she had a right to know his mind... his heart.

"No, Lothíriel of Dol Amroth, I will not deceive you. I don't tell you I love you, but this I tell you: I would like for us to come to know each other, and if you can bring yourself to allow me to do so, I'm most willing to learn to love you."

She stared at him, her eyes wide open, without saying a word, looking for once nothing but young and vulnerable. Ever so slowly he raised his hand and softly smoothed an errant strand behind her ear. "Lothíriel, I didn't propose to your father or fixed anything. I asked his permission to woo you. It is entirely up to you, if and when you can bring yourself to accepting me."

Swivelling around, she turned her back on him, straightening her shoulders, falling back into her normal bearing. Yet her voice was shaky, when she finally spoke: "But you don't know … "

Sensing her confusion and uncertainty, he moved closer, lowering his mouth to her ear. "I don't need to know more than you are willing to tell me. And be assured, Lothíriel, that whatever you tell me, it will not stop me cherishing you."

An evasive step brought her to the parapet. Positioning her hands carefully side by side on the stone, she breathed deep. "Do you really think I laid with ... that ...?"

_What to say now?_ Éomer felt like climbing a steep and craggy mountain path, where every step could end in disaster. But he would not build his ... their future on soft words and considerate lies. "I'm not sure." He cleared his throat before going on, his eyes on her set shoulders. _How he longed just to pull her against his chest._

"I have the feeling, that there is something I don't grasp. As I said before, there are many reasons why no man would throw away a chance to marry you, and especially not such a vain airhead as Mardil … but then it could be that _you _refused to have him, after ..."

He hesitated at her snort. "Are you joking? What chance would I have stood? Éomer, this is Gondor! I'm the Princess of the Realm, as you pointed out yourself, not a washerwoman's daughter. If I had lain with him, I would have had to marry him."

"Well, you mentioned he was married."

She slew round like an angry serpent. "You dare to think I would fall for a married man?"

As much as he appreciated the glow her wrath brought to her face, he did not like being at the receiving end of that furious stare.

"Not if you had known him to be married. But even then ... Lothíriel, I can't imagine your father and your brothers would have let the scum live, unless there is something ..." He shrugged, his voice petering out. He had the nasty feeling that there was much more than just a lost maidenhead behind her abysmal hatred, even considering the difference regarding a woman's virginity in Gondor. She would not hate anybody like that without a profound reason.

For a short moment they stood in uneasy silence, till suddenly, to Éomer's utter dismay, her shoulders sagged, her body shivering nearly indiscernible. "It's all my fault." Her voice was a mere whisper, her eyes brimming with tears.

He had his arms around her before her first tears ever fell, her hands clenching his tunic, her face buried in his chest, while her whole body shook with violent sobs. Holding her close, he tugged her head under his chin, murmuring softly in his mother tongue, crooning senseless words, that for ages had soothed children and horses alike in the Mark, pouring comfort and peace into frightened hearts.

Her sobs finally turning into hiccuping sounds, she wiggled herself out of his embrace and snuffled, looking totally embarrassed at the wet spots on his tunic. Searching her sleeves for a handkerchief she finally gave up.

"Sorry, it's not ladylike, but I have to blow my nose." Saying that, she turned away and soundly blew her nose, using her fingers in the simple but effective way any rider knew. Despite her sadness and his urge to soothe her, Éomer could not help a grin. Pulling down the hem of his sleeve, he approached her, and when she raised her head again, he tenderly dried her flustered face.

"I'm making an idiot out of myself." Her voice still shaky from crying, she resolutely pulled herself together. Waiting patiently, he stood near. He had promised her that she would set the pace, yet his patience cost him dearly. Had this been a start? Would she come to him at all? His fierce lady, with her hair flowing like a meara's night-coloured mane?

"I... I've never talked to anyone about it." Her voice was scarcely audible but clear and accentuated.

"Lothíriel, he is dead. Don't let him have any sway over you. Fight the impressions he left and cast him out!" He stroked her cheek with the back of his hand, reluctant, afraid to scare, where he wished to ensure her.

Breathing deeply, she finally spoke again. "I will talk to you, Éomer, but ... don't touch me, just let me talk."

He nodded, feeling an ice-cold lump clog in his stomach. Whatever it was she had to tell, he would hear her out, yet the prospect of being a mere listener, unable to act, caused his muscles to cramp. Moving one step away, she looked out over the bay, and after a while started to speak: calm, concentrated and with a low but steady voice.

"I never laid with Mardil of Edhellond or any other man. It wasn't me, he ensnared, but it well could have been. I just was lucky to have a caring family ... brothers who loved and protected me, and who would step up to defend me. Had I been lonely, receiving no consideration ... Who knows."

Fighting down her agitation, she remained silent for a while before she continued.

"Alcarien was the companion of my childhood, and I dearly loved her, though she was quite my opposite, so mild and soft-spoken ... the daughter of one of my father's knights. Her mother, hailing from Edellond, was one of my mother's ladies. We were educated together, being of the same age, I having no sister and she being her parents' only child. She was not particularly bright, yet so sweet-tempered and always eager to please that she even managed to curb my wild traits."

Again it took her a while to calm herself, but though her voice trembled slightly, she proceeded in her story.

"When she was fourteen her father died, supporting the Steward's army in Osgiliath and her mother returned with her to her people in Edhellond. We seldom met but wrote each other regularly and I came to witness all her sorrow and loneliness, having not only lost her father, whom she had loved dearly, but also all her friends and acquaintances here in Dol Amroth."

Anxiously watching her, Éomer noticed the slight tremble of her chin, the nearly indiscernible quivering of her lower lip, but she plodded on.

"And then her letters started to change. She told me about her being introduced into society on her fifteenth birthday, how crestfallen she had been, being nothing but a lower nobleman's daughter, living at the mercy of her mother's relatives. It had obviously been then she had come to catch Mardil's eye, and she had felt utterly happy and flattered being asked to dance more than once."

Only the knuckles of her clenched fists revealed her agitation, but as she continued to speak, her voice became bitter and cold.

"What resistance can a lonely fifteen-year-old innocent mobilise towards the assault of a handsome and experienced man, who wraps her in compliments, promises marriage to her, even hands her a ring as a token of betrothal? How is she to know that she is a mere toy to his desires, her innocence just some spice added to increase his perverse appetite?"

She stopped, her breast heaving. The feeling of being useless, unable to help, made Éomer grit his teeth. Though he knew now, that the princess herself had been safe from that vile swine, his bile rose at the story he anticipated. Lothíriel never turned her head, and having regained her equilibrium, she continued.

"Soon her letters were full of him: his looks, his politeness, how he played the lute for her in the garden of his father's mansion, how skilled a sailor he proved himself when they went for sailing trips on the bay ... and the fool I was, I read it as happily as she had written it, not realising what was behind all this."

The bitterness and self-accusation in her voice caused Éomer to intervene. "Lothíriel, you can hardly blame yourself for not seeing through the schemes of a villain at the age of fifteen."

She shook her head. "No, certainly not. But I should have felt alerted by her demanding me not to tell anybody about it. As it was, I simply was delighted by the highly romantic proceedings and truly believed he would marry her as soon as she was sixteen, that being the normal minimum age for a girl to wed in Gondor. The first time it struck me as being odd, was when she visited for the Spring-Festival. All she could talk about was him, and she showed me the ring he had given her, promising to marry her, but she made me promise not to tell anybody, because she had sworn to him not to do so. He was 25 then, and being the Lord of Edhellond's third and youngest son, had established himself with the help of his father as some quite prosperous tradesman and I could not think of any reason, why an engagement should be kept secret. That didn't make any sense, and I should have acted then. I should! True, she was very young, but she was of a good family, and her grandparents, though not being rich, would doubtless provide an adequate dowry for her. I told her so, but all her reactions were in eager defence of him, so I let it be."

She suddenly turned to him, and Éomer nearly flinched at the wild distress in her eyes. "If I had spoken up that time, if I had intervened, the worst might yet have been prevented. I was an idiot not to listen to my doubts, it is all my fault, I should have acted earlier."

He reached out a hand to her, but choking her sobs, she shook her head. "I have to finish this first."

Throwing her head back, she drew a ragged breath and then, to Éomer's utter amazement, continued, her voice again calm and aloof, as if a different person was speaking.

"It was when I came to know him, that my brain finally started to work. Seeing him dancing and flirting at Elphir's wedding. I despised and mistrusted him from the moment I set eyes on him. I told Alcarien in my next letter, but to no avail. Her answering letter was less open than usual, and I started to have serious misgivings."

Lothíriel's fingers started to tug at the hem of her sleeves, her gaze was unfocussed, staring out over the fast darkening bay.

"I finally asked Amrothos about Mardil, pretending to be interested in him and it took him just a few days to find out about that man's reputation and my heart sank. It's not necessary to go into disgusting details, but as it was, Amrothos simply stormed into my room, telling me to shun that bastard like foul meat. Amrothos has always been one for wenching, and the Dol Amroth lot is said to have quite a lax view on propriety, as far as propriety goes, but never would any of my brothers beguile an innocent. I then decided to admit him into my confidence and he immediately consulted our parents to ask them try and help in any way they could. Though my parents were greatly shocked they decided the very evening to approach the girl's mother. Without revealing any of their knowledge concerning the affair, they thought to suggest my childhood friend's coming back to Dol Amroth to keep me company and receive the education befitting a young woman of nobility, an offer her mother would certainly not decline."

"That was exceedingly good and wise of your parents", Éomer interjected in a low voice, wishing he could reach out to her with more than just words..

Ever so slowly tears started to fill he eyes. In contrast to her violent outburst before she was calm now and nodding she continued to talk, while the silent tears streamed over her face.

"It certainly was, yet it was of no avail. Merely days after my parents had sent word to Edhellond, we received an invitation. Lord Mardil was going to celebrate his betrothal... to Lebennin's richest merchant's only daughter. My brothers went over to remove Alcarien from Edhellond, but things went from bad to worse as it turned out that she was pregnant with Mardil's child. In her despair and mortification she told her mother about her secret betrothal to Mardil, and her uncle went to confront the lord, but that exacerbated the whole affair only further."

She hesitated, and more pressing then before he felt the need to pull her close, to shelter her, to shut out the cruelty of her tale, but clenching his fists, he abstained as promised, feeling as if his heart was slowly bleeding out.

"Mardil admitted to have lain with her, but swore he had found her no virgin. He said he had only been interested in her, because quite a number of his men had recommended her services, and as a matter of fact he had found her good sport in bed, versed in every kind of wantonness, but as could be well understood, never had promised her anything, the ring being merely a payment for the pleasures she had offered. But as she had done so freely to quite a number of men, there was no proof at all of him being the father of her unborn child. Her uncle believed the scum, as he swore upon his mother's honour, and cast her out."

"But..." Éomer's furious attempt to interject was met by her raised hand.

"Hear me out first, there is worse to come." Her voice was harsh as grit now, and he gave in, hardly able to control his rage, yet totally bewildered. _Had nobody seen through these machinations?_

"Soon after that, rumours started in the less reputable quarters of Dol Amroth. Some sailors from Edhellond bragging in the taverns about having lain with her, describing her body in such intimate details as were apt to prove their drunken statements. We tried to hide the slandering from her, but you can rather stop the tide than the wagging of tongues."

Éomer stared at Lothíriel's motionless face. _That just couldn't be!_ Gondor, a nation claiming to be the beacon of civilization! That was worse than Mordor! For a split second Wormtongue's pale face manifested itself in his mind, like a mockery of Mardil's handsome luring features._ Bema, that scum had deserved to die! _Then a second thought hit him: _The child! She had been with child!_ A child meant life, future, even the meanest whore's offspring carried the people's soul, was part of the flame of life that united a people... But this was Gondor... Had she not told him so? Didn't he know himself? Swallowing his rising bile, he asked, his voice a hoarse whisper, dreading the answer.

"Lothíoriel, tell me ...what became of her, of her and the child?"

She turned her back on him, and when she finally answered, her tone was bleak, as if no emotion could comprise the grief and guilt she felt.

"She killed herself months before the child was due, jumping off the cliffs at high tide. When her body was washed up the shore three days later, her mother was sick with grief and shame and unfit to go and identify the corpse. Amrothos and I went. I will never forget her poor bloated body, battered by the breakers, her chaffed skin, her features nearly beyond recognition, the eyes and lips being eaten away by the crabs... Her relatives refused to even attend her funeral." Lothíriel's voice broke.

_A whining yell ... choking ... gargling noises ...black hair floating in the swel l... Bema, that swine_ _Mardil_ _had died much too fast! _His red fury roaring up like a wildfire, Éomer felt choking on his inability to act, to fight, to throw himself into battle to change this. Squeezing his eyes shut till he saw biting yellow flashes, he tried to regain his balance, to breathe, to open his mouth without roaring like a wounded animal.


	12. Chapter 12

**Blimey, Silwerswath! I had not known before that there existed anything like "verbal puppy's eyes"! ;-) But as I'm a nice person and the chapter was ready anyway: Here you are and indulge yourself!**

**And I bow to Katster, who followed the trail of the hints through the chapters like my best sleuthhound. Congratulations!**

**Thank you to all of you for reviewing, subscribing, reading and wanting more. You certainly make me happy.**

**Chapter 12**

"Éomer?"

The concerned voice intruded the red haze that pervaded him, making him realise the soft touch of a hand on his upper arm and causing him to open his eyes. Worried grey eyes, a serious face, displaying a deep frown right above the root of the nose ... He gulped for air, like a man who had been at the edge of drowning ... _drowning ... _"Lothíriel, how can it be that they let him live all these years? Your father, Erchirion …?"

She withdrew her hand and stepped backwards, tilting her head to avoid his gaze. "Erchirion was in Minas Tirith, and Father ..."

She looked at her hands. "Well, things weren't that simple. Amrothos and Elphir tried to get hold of the sailors slandering her, but it seemed they had dissolved into thin air and nobody really knew them in the taverns and on the docks. Father went to consult Mardil's father, Lord Baranor of Edhellond, on the matter. He was a good and honourable man, as were his two elder sons, who went with him to defend Minas Tirith during the war and died on the Pelennor; that's why Mardil came into inheritance at all."

She shrugged helplessly. "The relation between Dol Amroth and Edhellond had always been good, and the family was highly respected in Gondor, except for Mardil himself that is. One does not break up a relation like that easily."

Éomer felt his fury ebb into bitterness. "So a girl's reputation remained slandered for political reasons."

"There were several reasons that made things difficult even for those who saw through Mardil's scheming. Though Lord Baranor admitted to Father that he thought Mardil to be irresponsible and vain to a high degree, he found it difficult to believe that his son would take an oath on his mother's honour that lightly. They finally agreed to have him removed to his wife's place in Upper Lebennin, out of the reach of my brothers."

"But there must have been people besides your family who saw through his machinations!" Disappointment and impatience made him sound harsher than he had intended.

She sighed. "There certainly were, but we could not prove anything, and there were certain aspects that made people doubt Alcarien's innocence."

Though her embarrassment was obvious, she went on in the effort to explain: "There were found quite a number of girls that later admitted having been seduced by Mardil, but not one of them ever had got pregnant. And what proved to be further fuel for the gossip mongers was the fact that in all the past five years his wife never conceived."

_The gods were just at least! _A grim smile on his face, Éomer nodded. "That was to be expected."

"Pardon?" Her face expressed utter surprise at his statement.

He frowned. _Surely she knew, didn't she? Every child in the Mark knew._

But there could be no doubt that she was totally at a loss. He had never imagined two neighbouring countries to differ that much in their traditions and beliefs. Trying not to let his resignation show in his voice, he explained: "The people of the Mark believe that children are a favour the gods show us. If a man is blessed with an offspring, with new life, and he does not care for it, even disavows it, they will punish him. They will blight his seeds and he will die without a trace of him left in his people."

She stared at him dumbfounded, and only after a while exclaimed, her disbelief showing clearly in her voice: "But Éomer, that would mean, that a woman could claim any man to be the father of her unborn child!"

"No." He shook his head with firm conviction. "Only the one she has lain with. You see, any man who could be the father would think twice to deny it, but if a man does, he generally is believed, the whole affair just being too dangerous. Therefore a woman would not risk willingly to name the wrong father."

With a grin he added: "Not that any Rohir would deny any reasonable claim anyway."

She looked at him doubtfully. "In the lower classes of Gondor most couples marry if a child is on the way, especially the girl's family pushing that on, and I suppose every decent lad is willing to marry his pregnant sweetheart, but there are always cases, in which a man would prefer to refrain from any responsibility, having seen the affair as something rather … non-committal. And there are women who are not virtuous as well."

Éomer hesitated. Should he tell her about that three riders of his first éored, who had pooled together to support the child of a loose woman from Aldburg they had celebrated a victory with, all four of them too drunk in the end to remember in detail what had happened that night? He decided to better let it slip.

He scratched his beard. He at least had to try to make her understand. "You see, there also is more in it for a man than just the fear of divine punishment."

"And what may that be?" Her head cocked, she eyed him with blatant curiosity.

He shrugged. "Stallion's pride."

"What?"

Her expression of genuine shock embarrassed him more than he would have thought possible. He avoided her gaze, realising that it was disappointment that caused his former anger to flare up again, disappointment that her reaction was that of any other prissy Gondorean. He wanted her to be different, to understand, to be able to see things with his eyes. But this was Gondor.

"Having children shows a man's virility," he insisted with stubborn persistence.

She snorted. "It certainly does."

Surprised he looked into her face. Was the flare of the torch deceiving his eyes, or was she really grinning? But when she spoke, the mirth in her voice could not be missed.

"I'm sorry Éomer, but when you made that remark, for a fleeting moment I was afraid you might be referring to one of these blood-curdling myths some of our homecoming soldiers enjoyed telling about the Rohirrim." The corners of her eyes still crinkling with laughter, she nevertheless blushed profoundly.

"To be sure, you looked really shocked." He looked at her appraisingly. "Well, I think I don't want to know what rumour you were thinking of."

There had been all kind of stories concerning the Rohirrim and their horses circulating at Cormallen, all of them a crude mixture of offence and admiration. Éomer chuckled softly. They would be rather gob-smacked if they knew some of the authentic myths of the Eorlingas and the role their horses played in them.

Her lips still curved in a smile, her eyes turned serious and as well in her voice he could sense the edge of earnestness, when she asked in a seemingly easy tone: "Well, my Lord King, and how many testimonies of _your _virility are running over the green plains of Rohan?"

Being the warrior he was, he knew a challenge when he was confronted with one. Not that he doubted her right to ask or his duty to answer, you didn't develop trust by avoiding possible problems, but he wanted her to get this right.

"As far as I know I have one daughter. Her name is Gytha, and I count her the greatest gift fate has given me so far."

There was no alarm in her mien, no surprise, no hint of flinching. She merely nodded and then asked, her voice now controlled but not unkind: "And her mother?"

He swallowed, not certain how to start. "She lives in the Wold," he finally said.

"I see." There was just an ever so slight hesitation, before she continued. "You never thought of marrying her?"

Éomer felt his hands get moist, his back crawl with cold sweat, as the memory closed in on him. Breathing deep, he tried to steady his mind. He had to overcome this, had to step out of his past though it meant baring his very soul to her judging eye. He wanted to love and be loved, and he had told her so, he had to get rid of his past injuries first, not to taint their relation with them. But he knew it would be painful.

"I proposed to her when I learned that she was pregnant, but she declined."

"You can't be serious! What woman in her right mind would ... Oh." The bristling with which she had started her statement died down to a small embarrassed gasp.

He looked at her gravely. Did she know how close to the mark she had hit? Had he known, then?

"Lothíriel, to understand all this you must know about a certain custom in the Mark, something very important for any Rider. A tradition that has its roots in the days when our ancestors had to flee Rhovannion, before they even became the Éothéod. Will you listen to me?" Their eyes met and she nodded her asset.

"You see, we were a people on the move for centuries, without roots to the soil we walked. " He hesitated. Would she understand? Would she reject him? He needed to know for sure. Taking her hand, he placed her palm on his chest, right over the spot where his drumming heart felt like breaking the frame of his ribcage and held it there, covering it with his swordhand as he continued to speak.

"For my people their women are the ones who carry the memory of our roots, whose souls are connected to soil and water we live on. They are able to let my people's memory sink into the ground, to make it become home, and only they can draw this energy out of the land again to make our people live. And only they as well know the way to the ancestors." Her fingers rested still and warm on his chest, her gaze never leaving his face. Probing, his fingers slid along hers: slender but strong and firm, soft skin with the archer's callouses.

"Our men's task and dedication is to protect them and with them the identity of our people. But when he dies in that cause, a warrior's soul is led to the Halls of our Ancestor's by the women's song and care."

Lothìriel nodded. "Erchirion told me that it was women who put Theoden King in his mound."

"Yes. It's the women who bring us into life and lead us out of it again. But there is something else, something they do to help any Rider who might die in battle far from home find his way to the ancestors and not get lost between the worlds."

He was not sure how to proceed, imagining that it would be difficult for her to accept the Rohirric belief.

"They give us the Éoredheap Segnung, the Blessing of the Warriors, to make our bodies remember what we are fighting for and our souls were we belong." Her fingers twitched slightly, but she didn't pull away, and after a moment of hesitation he continued.

"In case of war, on the eve of a battle or before the men leave their homes for the muster, every wife, every sweetheart will lie with the man they love, thus tying him to their land and smoothing their way to the other world should he die in battle."

Her hand remained firmly against his chest, a sad smile shining in her eyes. "It's a nice and warm-hearted custom, Éomer. But what if … I mean, you said _sweethearts. _What if an unmarried woman gets pregnant? What will become of her and the child if the warrior … does not return?"

He gently stroked the back of her hand with his thumb. She understood. He felt relief wash over him. "A child begotten at the Segnung is seen as a divine gift, a blessing. A sign that the warrior's connection to his people was rewarded."

Stopping his stroking thumb with her other hand, she looked up at him. "Éomer, there is something I don't grasp. From what I understand, a woman took you to her bed before you went to war."

He nodded at her enquiring look.

"She got pregnant by you."

Another nod.

"You wanted to marry her."

Again he nodded.

"And she refused." She shook her head. " That does not make any sense to me."

He sighed. "No, you are right, it really doesn't. You need to know something else to understand, something I..." He found it difficult to continue, and finally went for a direct attempt.

"Two years before … before she lay with me, Ethelfleda had been betrothed to Cedric of Snowbourne, a brave and noble warrior, and the date for their wedding had already been set. But for reasons I don't know, quarrel arose between them, so when Cedric was to go to battle, but days before their wedding, she refused to go to him, and Cedric in hurt pride did not take any other woman's offer."

He looked down at her, but she avoided his gaze, staring at his hand that held hers to his chest. Did she reckon what was to come next? His voice was hoarse when he carried on.

"He never came back and Ethelfleda ... she felt guilty, afraid he might be lost, unable to find his way because of her ... And I think she realized that she still loved him. She withdrew from everything and lived a mere shadow among the people of Edoras until ..."

He stopped, struggling for composure. This was worse than any combat he ever had fought through.

"Until that night she came to me, the night before my first battle." He swallowed, trying to suppress the bitterness that rose in him.

"She lay with me, Lothíriel, and yet she didn't, for..." He could not go on, his voice raspy and uncertain. He breathed, deep ragged breaths, his hand pressing hers against his chest.

"She lay with me," he continued after a while, his voice little more than a whisper, "but in her guilt-driven imagination she was with him, calling out his name, as I..."

He felt her hand twitch and immediately let go. How alien must all this seem to her, how could he have expected her to understand. Closing his eyes, he waited for her to withdraw her hand, but instead she clutched at him, crumpling his tunic in her right hand, while her left one grabbed his sleeve. None of them spoke, and finally her grip relaxed, her hand unclenched, till her palm lay again open on his chest, shielding his heart. Hesitantly he stroked the back of her hand, covering it again, anchoring himself in her presence.

"I rode into my fist battle, blessed and yet forsaken."

"Éomer," she breathed, lifting her grave face to him, "Éomer, for Uinen's sweet mercy, how old were you?"

A mirthless smile crept into the corners of his mouth. "Sixteen."

She swallowed. "Éomer, she was desperate … she ..."

"I know, Lothíriel. I know and understand now, but back then it felt as if I rode into battle a dead man." He shrugged.

"Yet I survived, and little time later I learned she was expecting and decided to marry her."

"Did you love her?" Her dark grey eyes were full of concern.

"No, I did not even remember her face properly. But I thought it was my duty."

Taking her small hand in both his large ones, he shook his head. "I was an idiot, Lothíriel. Hurt, uncertain, but full of my own importance. I had fought my first battle _and_ I had impregnated a woman. Were not the gods looking favourably at me?"

"And what did she say?"

"She refused to even think of marrying me." Seeing the doubt in her eyes, he explained.

"Lothíriel, I was a milksop, and she was a woman of twenty-four, Ethelfleda, Marshal Elfhelm's eldest daughter. No one expected her in earnest to marry me."

He shrugged. "She had lain with me at the Blessing, that is in a sacred joining, not because she had felt anything for me. I would have understood, had she based her refusal on that, but... "

For some seconds he watched his thumbs, stroking across her knuckles, before he finally lifted his gaze. "She told me, the child was not mine but Cedric's. She believed to carry her dead love's child. Believed that the gods had let him come back from the afterworld to give her this child as a token of forgiveness. For her I had been but a medium of their grace, a vessel to do their will."

"No!" She gasped in terror, both her hands clutching his.

"She believed it, Lothíriel. She could not help it. She believed it and plummeted me from the heights of my pride and self-importance into the abyss of nothingness."

He smiled wryly. "Soon after that she moved to the Wold, to live with her mother's people."

"And you?" Her voice still held some of the horror she tried to control.

He shrugged. "Strange enough I coped with it. No one knew, no one looked down on me or teased me, there were more battles, and I proved to be a promising warrior … I somehow found my place."

And there had been the lasses, who had started to seek him out, not only on a battle's eve, but after it, when he had come back victorious though sometimes hurt, their hands not only tending his wounds and loosening his cramped muscles, their arms and legs encircling him, fending off the terror of battle, their moist depth sucking him back into life. But he did not think it the right moment to talk about them now.

He could not help looking sheepish. "I recovered. And when I finally got the news that Ethelfleda had given birth to a daughter, I was off to the Wold, determined to claim my rights.

He shook his head, lost in memory. "I was such a moron."

Holding her hands, he looked up. "I behaved like a mad bull, marching into her aunt's house, demanding to see her, determined to fight anyone who dared to bar my way. I'm still not sure if I acted due to delusions of grandeur or if I just tried to hide the feeling of inferiority. Anyway, when I burst into her room, I found her nursing the child and that sight ..."

He sighed, a hesitant smile spreading over his face. "It stopped my ravings, as the very moment I saw that tiny being I simply ... melted and were I had intended to demand I found myself pleading."

"And did she listen to you?" Her voice full of concern, she pressed his hands.

He nodded. "Yes, she did. She was very different from the desperate woman that had left Edoras six months before. She didn't say a word, but listened as I stammered out my love for that child in her arms, begged her to let me protect it, support it, love it."

His gaze sought hers as he continued, his voice low, as if still after years that had passed he was not able to comprehend the wonder of that moment. "And then she stood, put the child in my arms and told me to present it to the household and name it."

"Had she overcome her madness?" Lothíriel's voice sounded breathless.

Slowly he shook his head. "I don't know Lothíriel, I never asked her. I'm not even sure if she wasn't right, and I've pondered it more than just one sleepless night, but it didn't matter that moment … and it does not matter anymore now. She seemed to have talked to nobody except me, and I have not spoken about it to anyone but you."

She nodded solemnly. "So you presenting the child to the members of the household and naming it defined you as the child's father?"

"Yes, it did. And I named her Gytha, "gift" in Westron, though at that moment I was not sure, whether it was a gift given to her by me, or rather to me by her. I just was convinced that that was her name, though I never had thought about it, not expecting to be in time for the naming."

"And what about the mother?" All anxiety had left her voice, but still there was quiet concern.

"Ethelfleda married Bealdric the next summer. A sheep-farmer of the Wold and a renowned warrior. He is a good man, and every time I went to see my daughter I found her cared for and loved. I could not wish for a better home for her."

Seeking her eye, he found her looking at him with understanding. "You see, as much as I loved her, I was much too young, out at training or on patrol most of the year, and all in all little more than a visitor. And then, with Wormtongue's machinations, Saruman's treachery and the Enemy rising in the east, I was much relieved to have her cared for as far away from Edoras as possible."

She stroked his hands lightly. "Those threats are over now, and she will live to see a better future for Rohan."

"Yes, she hopefully will." Lifting her hand to his lips, he softly kissed her knuckles. "And yet the fear for her well-being nearly made me go insane, when we were on our way to aid Minas Tirith."

"The orks crossing the Anduin," she whispered.

_Trust Imrahil's daughter to know about details of the war. _

He nodded. "We were warned about the attack, but turning aside would have delayed our arrival at Mundburg, and we knew that when it fell, the Mark would lay open to the enemy."

He swallowed hard, before he continued. "I gave the order to press on, but I felt as if my heart was torn into pieces."

"She remained unharmed, didn't she?" Her question sounded like a plea.

"Yes, she did. I would never have been able to forgive myself if ..." He could not finish the sentence.

"The Ents were out in the northern plains and led these beasts a deadly dance. The people of the Wold lost some flocks of sheep, but neither people nor horses came to harm. Though I have no doubt that foul creatures would have found Bealdric's men far from unprepared. Living in the Wold means living on the frontier, that makes people steadfast and sturdy, be it in war or peace."

Remembering the usual bustle of the wealthy farm, he could not help a grin. "You see, Bealdric can't ride to battle anymore because of a disrupted knee sinew, but that does not keep him from running his household like the captain he truly is. There are three boys now, and to Bealdric's utter joy a daughter was born this spring. He loves Gytha dearly, and as she is twelve now, and in less than two years time will leave for Aldburg or even Edoras for further education, he was just happy that there would be another little girl to spoil."

She tilted her head, her tone teasing. "You mean to take her into your household? Feel it is your turn now to spoil her?"

"As it is, she is the King's daughter now, and it is necessary for her to get some courtly polish, as far as you Gondoreans think us Rohirrim able to achieve it." He grinned, as she smacked his hands, and made to catch her fingers again.

"I think first of all she will stay some time with her grandparents at Aldburg. Her grandmother Hrodwin is looking forward to have and educate her, but when Gytha feels up to it I would like her to come to Edoras, just for the chance to boast a bit with my lovely daughter."

"I see," she mirrored his grin, "Stallion's pride."

He found it difficult not to laugh. How easy it was to fall in with her teasing. Trying his utmost to display the facial expression he and Éothain used to call the G_ondorean airhead_, he let go of her, crossed his hands behind his back and addressed her in perfect haughtiness. "Princess Lothíriel of Dol Amroth, you are supposed to be shocked, disgusted, and miffed and not to talk like a Rohirric stable hand."

"My dear Sir Uptight," Joining his antics with much more talent than him, she slid into the royal role, cool like a trout in a mountain stream. "As a matter of fact I have been informed, that there are certain occasions, when even the King of Rohan himself is confirmed to be quite close to said profession and bearing, and I think it is our absolute duty to adapt to that example of demeanour as a sign of Gondor's gratitude, and as well, though that is certainly to be considered a most demanding task for Gondor's nobility, as the acknowledgement of the existence of a rare thing amongst Lords and Ladies: common sense."

Carrying her role to excess, she looked down her nose till she squinted. He snorted with laughter. Who would have imagined such fun, seeing her preceding yesterday's official banquet? The longer he talked with her, the more aspects of the girl her brothers had told him about peeped out of her personality. He breathed deep. He had been right: If she would just let him, he surely would be able to come to love her.

Stomping feet and the clang of armour from the other access to the battlement announced the change of guards. Lothíriel looked up in surprise. "I hadn't realised it was that late already. Dinner will be served in half an hour, we had better go down."

Bowing in acknowledgement, he offered his arm, and side by side they made for the stairs.


	13. Chapter 13

**I'd like to thank all of you for your persistent interest in my story, and hope that at least one of the questions that sprung up in the last chapter will be answered in this one, though I'm not promising that there will be no new ones arising. ;-)  
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**Chapter 13**

Right before entering the passageway that led to the stairs Lothíriel stopped, her hand gently pressing his arm. "Éomer, would you give Erchirion a chance to come to Rohan, at least for a while?"

"If he wants to, he shall be welcome." He smiled at her ensuringly, though wondering, why she was so concerned about it.

Sensing his lack of understanding, she defined her request. "I wished for him he could. He has never felt quite comfortable in Dol Amroth after … well, when Father sent him to Tol Falas seven years ago. But he was not very content on Tol Falas or in Minas Tirith either. Only when he came back from Rohan last summer after King Théoden's funeral did I have the impression that he finally had found a place that would do him good, and where he would like to stay."

Éomer frowned, looking at her concerned face. He could not help the feeling she was hiding something from him. But why? He did not believe she would do so to deceive him, but rather thought, there might be something she had difficulties to talk about. "Why was he sent to Tol Falas?"

She gave him a sidelong look. "Has he never told you?"

He shook his head. "I certainly don't know what you are aiming at, Lothíriel, but he has never talked to me about his stay on that island or in Minas Tirith. All I ever knew was that he came with Amrothos and your father to aid Mundburg when it was attacked by the Shadow."

"I see." She drew her hand back, fidgeting for a moment with the hem of her sleeve, before looking up again.

"I wasn't sure, but somehow I had expected him to have talked about it to you. He seems to be so close to you." She shrugged. "And there is no use of trying to hide it, as the whole of Dol Amroth and probably half of Gondor knows … but perhaps there are certain things no man likes to talk about even to his closest friends."

"But you think I should know, before I invite him to Edoras?" Watching her closely, he saw her mouth clamp for a split second, but then she she sighed.

"I don't know, Éomer. It was quite a scandal then, but that was seven years ago, and with his valiant deeds on the Pelennor and in front of the Black Gate surely nobody will reproach him for it anymore, and I can't believe he avoided talking about it just due to hurt male pride, that does not really fit with Erchi." She shook her head, seemingly lost in thought.

Éomer lightly touched her elbow, willing her to look at him. "Lothíriel, don't you think you should tell me what exactly happened?"

Her grave grey eyes found his gaze, and she solemnly nodded. "Yes, I certainly think I should. I believe you ought to know about it, if only to understand him better. And I suppose it might cause you some embarrassment if he stays as the King's guest in Rohan and then you are confronted with rumours and gossip you had no information of beforehand. But it feels so wrong to talk about it with him not being present."

Eomer frowned. Her indications did not forebode anything good, so he decided to be prepared for the worst. "Lothíriel, are you trying to hint that Erchirion committed some kind of serious ... crime?"

"Crime?" She looked up truly shocked. "No, certainly not. He rather made a laughing stock of himself, the whole town sneered at for quite some time."

After a moment's hesitation she continued. "You see, his previous behaviour was one of the reason's father could not act as drastically as he would have liked when Mardil..."

"Lothíriel," he interrupted her, "just tell me and let's have done with it. You yourself said, that everybody in Dol Amroth knows, so it can hardly be Erchiron's personal secret."

"You are right, and yet..." Taking a deep breath, she squared her shoulders, and with her gaze firmly set on the stonework of the nearby wall she said, switching to a matter-of-fact tone: "Well, it can't be avoided. The whole affair started because Erchirion had fallen in love with an elderly baker's young wife, as fluffy as a loaf of wheat bread and unfortunately just as stupid."

"He fell in love with a married woman?" Éomer felt as if his whole world had been turned upside down.

She nodded. "Don't ask me how and why, nobody of the family, not even Amrothos knew, until finally the scandal blew up."

Her hands fidgeted nervously, but nevertheless she talked on. "He was totally smitten with her and in his reckless madness went regularly to visit her at night, once her husband had gone down to the bakery. It's just incredible."

_This couldn't be!_ _Incredible was a much too weak word for that_. His whole body tense, Éomer stared at the princess, grateful that she was not looking at him as she continued her tale.

"Well, I don't know for how long that went on, but it did not remain unnoticed by the neighbourhood, and so one night the husband caught them at it … in his own marriage bed."

Disgust and horror shook him, imagining Erchirion able to behave in such an abhorrent way. Erchirion, his friend, his brother in arms, nothing but a knave. He swallowed hard to keep his bile down. Having avoided his gaze while telling the tale, Lothíriel did not notice his repugnance, and speaking faster tried to come to an end.

"I don't know if Erchirion had been recognised, but being the idiot he is, he went for the poor husband, stark-naked as he was."

Not able to hold back anymore, it took Éomer all his strength to keep from yelling. "How can he live with the blood of those people on his hands?"

"What?" Her head shot up with a sudden jerk, and seeing his appalled mien, she raised her hands to placate him. "You got that wrong, Éomer. Nothing happened to them. Erchirion was not armed. You see, as a matter of fact, when Erchirion went to pommel the baker, his wife threw herself in between, protecting her spouse from her lover's wrath."

She gave a half smile, somewhere between wry and helpless. "With the uproar all that caused, there was no chance to hush the whole affair up."

_Was that all she was concerned about?_ How could she talk about such an abominable crime in such a light-hearted way? Was that the way Gondorean nobles treated commoners? He mentally shook himself. Her behaviour did not fit in with what he had seen of her that day. It had to be yet another misunderstanding. He wished he could kick something, someone, or at least groan out his anger and despair. Forcing himself to restraint, he finally managed to ask, his voice coarse with subdued wrath: "So what might be the outcome of this?"

Giving him a sidelong look that clearly showed her incomprehension, she continued hesitantly. "Well, the baker complained to my father, as the Lord of the Land, and Father tried his best to compensate the man. Erchirion was sent to Tol Falas for one year and after that he did not want to come back but joined the army in Minas Tirith."

Something in him snapped, and grabbing her by her shoulders, he shook her, howling out his abhorrence. "But how can he live with the responsibility for that woman's death?"

She stared at him with her mouth dropped open, paralysed by the fury and despair of his outbreak. "What do you mean?" she finally stammered.

Now it was Éomer's turn to feel baffled. Slowly letting go of her shoulders, he cleared his throat, before he asked doubtfully: "Well, was she not put to death?"

"But no!" The shock about his assumption clearly showed on her face. "Éomer, I would never take it that easy if anything like that had happened." Breathing deep, she tried to steady herself. "Certainly, if a husband comes upon his wife in a situation like this and kills her in a fit of rage and jealousy, he would not been taken to justice, but normally a thus disgraced husband demands divorce and casts his infidel wife out."

"I'm not talking about the husband's actions, I mean ..." Éomer suddenly had the definite feeling she would not at all understand him.

Frowning she alternately massaged her mistreated shoulders. "Who else should have any interest to interfere?"

He swallowed and averted his gaze. What had possessed him to jump at her like that? Assaulted by a feeling of guilt he realised that it had been disappointment. Disappointment that his image of Erchirion had been ripped apart, and fear that he might lose not only his friend but … He shook his head. He had to stop dreaming and get this right first. Struggling to sound objective, he finally said: "The law. Certainly you have laws, traditions concerning ..."

"Adultery?" her voice was snippy now. "We certainly have. If a spouse is caught in the act, the betrayed wife or husband can demand divorce, reclaiming everything he or she brought into that marriage, be it a dowry or a morning gift. Anyway, our baker was a wise man, he loved his wife and he knew she was easily impressed, especially being courted by a Prince of the Realm. He forgave her and kept her, and they are said to have led a very loving marriage ever after, having two children in the meantime with a third one on the way."

Only then did she seem to grasp Éomer's line of thought. Staring at him totally aghast she spluttered: "Why, Éomer are you telling me that adultery in Rohan is punished by death?"

There was no way for him to back out of this, no way he could lie. And why should he? True, he was the King of the Mark, but this had been ancient law from before the times the Éothéod had crossed into the vales of the upper Anduin. It was not as if he had made it. Yet he avoided her eyes as he explained. "If a wife commits adultery she is put to death."

"Even if her husband forgives her?" Her voice was filled with incredulity.

He stared at his fingers without seeing them. "Lothíriel, she is not executed for seeking pleasure outside of marriage, but for breaking her oath, and that is a matter that might destabilize the community."

She did not react, and so he tried to clarify the background. "At the wedding the bride swears to uphold her husband's honour and bear his children. So if she lays with anybody else she breaks the oath."

She shook her head in disbelief. "A marriage is between two people, nobody else should have the right to interfere."

He did not reply, knowing whatever he said would only worsen the situation. The silence stretched uncomfortably, but Éomer would have preferred any length of awkward silence to the question the princess finally asked.

"I notice that you very pointedly speak about infidel wives, so what happens to an infidel husband?"

"The deceived husband will challenge him to a duel," he answered lamely.

"Just wait a moment." She at once saw the weak point in his answer. "You are again talking about the woman's part, the woman's husband avenging himself. What if a husband commits adultery with an unmarried woman? What do your ancient laws say about that?"

_Béma, he was in for it now! _He breathed deep and looking concentratively at his hands, he said in a voice as even as possible: "Nothing."

"Nothing! My Lord Éomer, are you telling me that an infidel wife is put to death and a likewise infidel husband goes free if he is good enough a swordsman to kill his challenger?" Her anger and contempt were obvious.

"You misunderstand. The oath a husband takes differs, there is nothing about restricting him ... though a wife can demand to be divorced if her husband keeps a permanent mistress without her consent. He vows to protect his wife and her children – if he fails at that willingly, he is cast out, free to anybody to kill him." He raked both hands through his hair.

"Lothíriel, I did not make these laws, they are ancient," he finally added haltingly.

She nodded. "You certainly did not make them, but stand for them. You are the King."

Stung by her remark, he felt his anger rise. "And as the King I am the first who has to obey the rules. One does not easily cast aside the traditional laws of the ancestors."

"No, on certainly does not, but neither should one cling to traditions only because they are traditional! Being King it is your task to lead your people to a better future, not back into the past. You don't live under the same circumstances as your ancestors any more."

Angrily she turned her back on him. He gritted his teeth. He had wanted to strengthen her confidence and here they were, discussing the different laws of their countries concerning adultery. It was madness!

She finally slew round, her arms crossed in front of her breasts, her grey eyes dark as slate in the light of the single torch besides the passageway. "Éomer, there once was the custom along the Falas to sacrifice the first-born to Osse, to soothe his temper. We do not have this tradition any more, because at one point in the past people started to refrain from it, understanding it to be cruel and a matter of superstition."

Meeting no immediate resistance from Éomer's side, she lowered her arms before she continued with emphasis: "We, who live today, to following generations in the far future will be ancestors one day, lost in the haze of myth. Why should not our generation, the one who conquered the Shadow, be the one to abolish an old and cruel law and replace it by something better?"

He could not help but slowly nod. What she said made sense to him and sounded uplifting at the same time. Her proud stance, her head held high, her eyes blazing challenge... _Béma, he admired that woman!_ To have her speak in front of the Council would be a spectacle to behold. Unaware of his approval she continued to speak, pacing up and down the close space in front of the passageway, her hands clutched behind her back.

"Éomer, I can well understand that in the royal family it is important for the peace of the country that the line is kept pure, that the royal blood is inherited undilated and that there is no bastard born. I know that even the suspicion of anything in that direction might cause civil disturbances. And I therefore believe that any woman born and brought up noble should know her responsibility and duty, no matter what else she feels for her husband, but of what political consequence is infidelity in case of a commoner? Why should there be a law to punish a wife for something that does only concern herself and her husband? Is not the disgrace of being divorced enough punishment?"

Stopping right in front of him, balancing her weight on the balls of her feet like a fighter ready to charge, she looked straight into his eyes. "Laws should be for the benefit of the commoners, the people, who are the backbone of every realm, and therefore a responsible sovereign will study the way of his people to adjust the laws to their needs."

_What a Queen that woman would make! _Perhaps her point of view, though more than qualified in his eyes, was considered naïve by some, due to her youth, but he was sure she would argue them out of their shirts. How he admired her fire and determination! She would bring the gales of the Falas into Meduseld. And let the gods have mercy on his councillors, once she spoke the language of the Mark! He could not help a grin. "You sound like the King's Councillor. How old are you, Lothíriel of Dol Amroth?"

Seemingly just short from scratching his face she bristled at him, all of a sudden looking as young as she really was. "Don't you dare to tell me just because I'm eight years you junior I can't think! It's enough to hear such blatant nonsense from my brothers!"

"Nay, I never would," he assured her. "I just imagined you holding this speech in front of the Council of the Mark. You would certainly leave Eáldread speechless."

She shook her head. "That wouldn't be a good idea: Some snotty Gondorean princess turning up in Edoras to tell the Rohirrim how to better their legal system."

"Lothíriel, during this one short day I have been in your company, you have been quite a lot of things, but never snotty."

She smiled at his remark, but again shook her head. "No, Éomer, any change that is supposed to be really accepted by the people has to be rooted in their awareness. It might be that they won't voice any desire for things to be changed, even though they think or feel it should happen. To find that out, to know the people's request, that is the basis of righteous leadership."

"Imrahil certainly has been an apt instructor," Éomer smiled, "and there certainly are values that are the same in every country inhabited by Man, be their traditions and way of life as different as may be."

With a happy grin she assented, but he cringed inwardly as she absent-mindedly rubbed her shoulder again. "I'm sorry, Lothíriel, I never should have tackled you. I ..."

"That's nothing." Waving aside his apology, she interrupted him."Growing up with three brothers I got bruised more than once, though..." Her grin deepened. "I must admit I kicked their shins, and I'm quite good at it."

Stroking her left shoulder lightly with his index finger, he murmured: "I bet they deserved it, though perhaps not as much as me." He just could not tell her about his despair, his fear, it would sound like some kind of justification, and for him there was none.

Sensing his mood, she turned serious. "A bruise doesn't matter. What really hurts is the thought, that you believed me able to skip a woman's death lightly, just because one of my brothers was involved, and worse, that you thought Erchirion would not care for the woman he bedded."

Éomer gasped. "But that was why I lost my temper! I saw you, heard you talk, I misunderstood and yet I did not want to believe that you or Erchirion ..."

Her hand touched his forearm, tugging at his sleeve in the attempt to get his entire attention. "He loved her, Éomer, he was mad! He quarrelled with Father, he raved he would marry her once she had got her divorce, made plans about leaving Dol Amroth, about abdicating all his privileges, and living with her somewhere else in Gondor as a soldier or a horse-breeder."

She shrugged in a helpless way. "When he was about to leave for Tol Falas some days later, he asked her to come with him, but she declined, telling him that through him she had realised how much she loved her husband, and how wrong her behaviour had been. She stayed with her husband, and it took Erchirion years to get over it."

Éomer sighed. "As bitter as that is for him, he still can be happy it didn't happen to him in Rohan."

Cocking her head, she looked at him appraisingly for a moment, before she asked: "Éomer King, tell me, how many wives have been executed these last years?"

He paused. "Why, none... I don't remember any such thing to have happened all my life-time."

Surprised he looked at her, unsettled by the faint smile tugged away in the corners of her mouth. He shook his head pensively. "As a matter of fact, the only cases I know are very old ones, passed down by the minstrels, telling of the tragedy of a man having to hand his wife over to justice and fight his best friend, though loving them both, he would rather have stepped down to see the two of them happy."

"See!" Triumph blazing in her eyes, she jabbed her forefinger into his solar plexus. "Things have already changed. You just have to adjust the laws to the actual habits of your people."

She beamed at him. "I don't know enough of Rohirric law to say what can be done, but listening to the people will give you the necessary information to base your decision on."

As much as he enjoyed her eagerness he could not but shake his head. "Lothíriel, there are so many urgent and fundamental things to be done at the moment, there..."

"I'm sorry, Éomer," she interrupted, blushing furiously. "You are certainly right, there are other things much more important for your people right now, and as well perhaps in the years ahead. But when there comes a time, fit for a change, you should not hesitate to try and enforce it."

He didn't like being lectured, not even by her. Raising his eyebrows he nodded ironically. "Oh, I surely have been noticed up to now for reluctance towards action, a bias towards hesitation and a tendency not to be able to make up my mind."

Laying her hands on his forearms, she stopped him. "Don't try to misunderstand me on purpose! You know I never would doubt your decisiveness and truly I know you would not sit on the sand till the incoming tide wetted your..."

She stopped abruptly, realising just in time what she was about to say. An impish grin slowly crept over her face, curving her mouth, crinkling the corners of her eyes, making her nostrils twitch and her eyes sparkle like grey pools in the sunshine of a glorious day, until laughter bubbled forth, clear, fresh, joyous, like a brook, splashing over rock and moss. "Sorry, " she exclaimed between ripples of laughter, "three brothers, you see."

He had not realised that he had been grinning himself, staring at her face, his own mirroring her cheerfulness, but hearing the sound of her laughter, he felt swept away. Something evolved deep inside him, unknotting all his former anger and uncertainty, sweeping away carefully arranged plans, as laughter rose in his chest, like the faint rumbling of some sheet lightning at the horizon of the plains, promising rain, fertility and life to the Mark. He bent over, his midriff convulsing, laughing for the sheer joy of it.

Their arms locked in the mocking of a warrior's embrace they laughed, looking at each other, rejoicing in their mutual mirth. Out of breath they finally stopped, and brushing a strand of his still damp hair away that had fallen over his face, Lothíriel sighed happily, exhausted with glee. "Uinen's mercy, Éomer, you should laugh more often. It is becoming to you."

"Is it?" _What a daft answer! _Hanging between mirth and seriousness, he covered her hand with his own, pressing it to his cheek.

She smilingly nodded. "Yes, it does. It makes you look … boyish."

He again snorted with laughter. "Boyish! Exactly what every man wants to hear from the woman he woos!"

She chuckled softly, while her fingers trailed down his cheek, caressing his bearded jawline, and finally came to rest on his shoulder. He held his breath, fighting the urge to pull her close, wrap her in his arms, press her against his tensing body. She seemed totally unaware of the effect she had on him. Her face still flushed from her laughing fit, she looked into his eyes, started with surprise for a split second and then her gaze hazed. His heart beating in his throat, he bent his head, breathing a kiss on her brow. Out of their own volition his hands moved to her waist. She tightened her grip on his shoulder, while her other hand crept up to his chest, and closing her eyes, she tilted her head backwards, as if to give him better access to her mouth. _How her lips beckoned to him! _Dropping a trail of kisses across her forehead he moved to her temples, before his lips gently touched a corner of her mouth.

"Oh, here you are. Thought I would find you here."

The brisk voice ringing across the battlement caused Lothíriel to tense and step back, out of his arms. Turning to face the intruder, Éomer clenched his fists at his side, trying to appear as unconcerned as possible.

**Don't lapidate me, I know that is a mean way to stop a chapter, but I felt I had to retaliate upon LBJ for her latest chapter of "Swan-song"! ;-DDD**


	14. Chapter 14

**Obviously you don't** **like cliffies. ;-D Well, here comes some kind of compensation, though I'm afraid the chapter is a little short.**

**Chapter14**

Amrothos! That man certainly had a death wish!

Ignoring the King of Rohan, Amrothos addressed his sister: "Loth, please, Father would like to talk to you before dinner. He's waiting for you in his study."

With a short nod to both men, Lothíriel left the battlement without saying a word.

Fuming with rage, Éomer watched Amrothos stepping up to the parapet. Not only did that pest of Dol Amroth turn up in the most unbefitting moment, he also had the impertinence to stay. His jaw set, he went to stand beside Imrahil's son, instinctively falling into the swordman's stance, balancing on the balls of his feet, one foot slightly put forwards, their elbows nearly touching. Mentally cursing the newly awakening pain in his toe, he stared out over the bay, his fists clenched at his side, waiting for Amrothos to open his mouth, just for the chance to shut him up for good this time. For a while they stood side by side, and with some regret Éomer felt the tension slowly drain out of his body.

Finally, still looking out over the bay and thus avoiding Éomer's gaze, Amrothos spoke, his voice sober and calm, without any hint of his usual chaffing. "Éomer, I do believe the Rohirrim to be absolutely honourable, but as we both know, attitudes and traditions vary a lot in our countries, especially concerning ... well, propriety, in particular a woman's propriety."

_That idiot! Yet he intends to protect his sister ... _Carefully keeping his own voice level, Éomer answered: "If I had not known before, I certainly would have understood that from what your sister told me."

With some satisfaction he felt Amrothos wince, which spurred him to ad in a wry tone: "But as you perhaps noticed, it was me who tried to keep your sister from embarrassment. And if it was not just a trick to lure her away, and your father truly sent you to look for Lothíriel, he certainly told you, that I spoke to him first."

Taking a step back, Amrothos whistled appreciatory: " You Rohirrim surely don't waste any time."

"If we did, Gondor would not exist anymore." Éomer found it hard to keep the snarl out of his voice.

Amrothos shrugged, totally unimpressed by the Rohir's anger. "I know, Éomer, and I'm not likely to ever forget it. But then, my father just asked me to find Lothíriel, so I didn't know you had already approached him."

Pondering the news, Éomer sucked in his cheeks. After a further moment of awkward silence Amrothos addressed him again, his voice more serious than Éomer had ever believed possible with Imrahil's youngest son. "Éomer, don't rush her. Let her come to you at her own pace."

Surprised at the serious tone, Éomer turned to face him. "That was exactly what I had told her, before you interrupted. And as for the differences of our countries: No Rohir would ever force an unwilling woman into marriage."

"Man! Take it down a notch, will you?" Raising his hands in a gesture of defeat, Amrothos shook his head. "It's not that I think her opposed to you; quite the contrary. I know she cares about you."

"Oh, do you?" Though he appreciated Amrothos' obvious soberness, he was by no means pacified.

Amrothos shrugged. "The very moment she gave you that green headscarf I was sure she felt more for you than just the due friendship and care a guest of honour can expect."

Éomer snorted. "You did not fail to point out it was the colours of Rohan."

"Oh that!" Amrothos waved his hand dismissively. "No, but do you know how difficult it is to dye cotton a really true green colour?"

Tilting his head, he looked at Éomer, who could not help a frown, feeling uncomfortable under that all seeing jackdaw eyes.

"You see," Amrothos continued, "it was the months after that … after Alcarien had died. I tried to distract Lothíriel, wanted to take her sailing, but she was not up to face the sea, and to occupy herself, she took to experiment with herbal dye. I often accompanied her, when she went to collect plants, roaming the upper meadows, for we were afraid for her state of mind, and with her favourite Erchirion away at Minas Tirith, I was the only one whose company she would tolerate."

Lost in thought, Imrahil's son paced the battlement, and for a short moment Éomer thought, how much he resembled his sister. Finally Amrothos stopped, and turned to face the Rohir again. "It is obviously much more difficult to dye cotton and linen with herbs than wool or silk, and green seems to be an especially difficult colour, so be sure, that was it she went for!"

With a loop-sided grin he went into details. "I don't know how many times we went to collect bracken, stinging-nettle, meadow-horsetail and woad, just to mention some she experimented with in her concoctions, but that very headscarf she gave you was the only one that came out the wanted shade of green after weeks of experiment and she was extremely proud of it, keeping it as some kind of treasure."

Unsure whether Amrothos was having him on, Éomer did not reply, but he grudgingly had to admit that his mind immediately spun back to the scenes in the morning, their talk at breakfast, the way to the harbour, Tol Cobas, scanning them for hints of affection. Even her remarks about him in the garden suddenly shone in a quite different light. Suddenly he became aware that Amrothos was still looking at him.

As their gaze met, Amrothos grinned. "Well, and that you were not indifferent became clear soon enough."

Éomer groaned inwardly. _Bet that imbecile to come up with that ogling- scene again!_

As if reading his thoughts, Amrothos shook his head. "I'm not talking about lust. That gets us all now and then. And you did behave yourself, which can't be said about me. I'm sorry about that, Éomer. Your desire to alter my facial features after I blurted out that brainless remark about eating figs was quite impressive and your intention more than obvious."

His chest heaving in a deep sigh, Amrothos raked both hands through his hair. "It's just so bloody strange to notice your baby sister has grown up. It comes all of a sudden, though it has happened right under your nose all the time." Averting his face, Amrothos went back to the parapet, looking out over the bay.

… _Your baby sister has grown up … _Éomer was dumbfounded, his memory flooded with all his mixed emotions on learning about Éowyn's love for Faramir, the joy he had felt to see her happy, yet dreading the lonely hall of Meduseld without her ... What an irony, to be standing here with Amrothos and not only to know exactly how the other man felt but to understand and excuse his behaviour.

When Amrothos finally turned round again, he had overcome his agitation, and the well-known spark of mischief was back in his light-coloured eyes. Throwing up his hands in mock despair, he exclaimed: "Why can't you be contented with dragging Erchirion to Rohan? He already is half a Rohir."

"You seem to be quite determined to shift him off to the Mark," Éomer grinned, "Elphir suggested it too."

At that moment, the chime of a bell could be heard, announcing the household's evening meal and both men made for the passageway. Walking side by side they continued their conversation, Erchirion and his wish to come to Rohan still the topic.

"I truly think that it would do him good," Amrothos stated, "He does not really feel good at Dol Amroth, and he would not like to stay in Minas Tirith with father as some kind of the King's Chief Counsellor. I talked with Loth about it ..."

"Me too."

Éomer's remark stopped Amrothos in his tracks. "You did?"

"She broached the topic to me."

"I should have known she would take the bull by the horns! We have been talking about it since he came back after King Théoden's funeral last year, the bloke being nostalgic for Rohan like a stranded sailor for the tavern. He would have liked to return there and then, but Father thought implanting some high-ranked Gondorean noble might lead to wrong conclusions in Edoras, what with your plans to revive Éorl's Oath."

He gave Éomer a sidelong gaze. "We didn't know, how secure your standing as Rohan's new King was right after the war, the country still needing support from Gondor and didn't want to undermine your position."

Éomer shrugged. "Depending on Gondor certainly hurt, even though Aragorn made well clear he thought the supplies the least he could give us for our aid against the Shadow, but it never weakened my position. Well, and now we are on trading terms again, though it can't be denied that supplies are still leaner than I wished for my people."

For a while they walked in silence down the corridor that led to the hall, where the evening meals were normally taken.

Right before entering, Éomer addressed Amrothos again. "I'll talk to Imrahil about Erchirion's wish at dinner. I'm almost certain, he'll head for the East-Fold, being as horse-mad as any Eorling could be."

Amrothos chuckled. "I'll bet, he'll be a success, especially with the ladies."

Éomer nodded with a grin. "They'll just fall over themselves!"

"How long will it take till he is married then? Shall we put up a wager?" Amrothos eyes gleamed eagerly.

His grin deepening, Éomer shook his head. "No, he'll be faster than anyone of us can imagine. He has already ordered me to find him a wife."

"What?" Amrothos snorted with laughter. "Well, Éomer, that's even faster than you yourself. It took you at least one day to make up your mind!"

**ooo**

Éomer went up to the window, looking out over the bay. The moonlight painted silver streaks along the rippling waves, casting the sea and the shore into a dreamlike shade.

Strange and detached he felt, as he took in the different shades of grey. Though the planned festivities had been called off due to Mardil of Edhellond's death, dinner in Imrahil's household always was very different from the quiet and relaxed atmosphere at breakfast, which was restricted to family members. It was a kind of representation of the ruling family of Dol Amroth and he, being a guest of honour, had been in the centre of it, like every evening in the past week. Not that he minded, but today of all days, he had hoped for something different. Something apart from the friendly politeness of his host, the more or less open admiration as a war-hero most young men bestowed on him, not to talk about the blushing and batting of eyelashes from the female attenders.

True, Imrahil's wife had smiled at him cordially, her soft brown eyes shining with undisguised sympathy, but Imrahil himself had not mentioned their prior conversation with a single word, and even Amrothos had refrained from any jibe or banter. Lothíriel herself had been friendly, caring, as far as his supply with food and drink had been concerned, but their conversation had been reduced to friendly small talk, though often in the pause of conversation he had found her gaze on him, grave and thoughtful.

Reluctantly he had to admit he was getting impatient, though he knew he had no reason for it. He had made his intent known, now it was her turn for the next move. He raked his hand through his hair. The princess had left as soon as the meal was finished, though as usual, people dispersed throughout the hall in conversation, letting the evening gently fade away over a last goblet of wine.

He sighed. Perhaps thence his frustration: He oddly felt like ignored and forgotten. He shook his head. What had he expected? This very morning he had thought her haughty and conceited, had been ready to do anything to avoid her company, and here he was, being in a huff because she had retired early after a demanding day. He scolded himself for being unreasonable, but without much success.

Lost in thought, he did not notice her re-enter the hall, nor did he hear her light steps as she walked up to him, carrying a small, delicate cup made of mother of pearl, but as she stood behind him, he suddenly sensed her. He turned round, trying in vain to display a calm mien, for as soon as their eyes met, his mouth curved in a smile.

Her face serious, but her grey eyes sparkling with mischief, she proffered the tiny cup to him. "As you don't like the wine, I thought to treat you to something different, though made as well from grapes. A speciality from the Falas."

Curiously he looked at the liquid. It seemed clear and transparent like water, innocent and unsuspicious. Hesitantly he encircled the cup with his hands, large against the fragile vessel, feeling the softness of Lothíriel's skin as his fingers brushed hers in the process. The sparkle in her eyes intensified.

"Beware!" Her voice was little more than a whisper. "It is much more potent than it looks."

Never losing the touch of her slate-grey eyes, he raised the cup to his lips and took a measured sip.

_Béma! _

Liquid fire assaulted his sun-chaffed lips, burned his mouth, scorched his tongue. He gulped, feeling the fiery stream rolling down his throat, pooling heat in his stomach.

_Air! _

"Don't breath through your mouth." Lothíriel hardly concealed her gloating.

He obeyed, and as his nostrils flared, sucking in breath, he felt the taste of the drink surface though the burning in his mouth: a trace of something like a flower, sweet and yet spicy. Slowly the scorching died away and a warm tingle spread from his stomach all over his body.

_Most obvious more potent than it looked!_ "What in Middle- Earth is that?" he asked, his voice hoarse. He still held the cup with the rest of the liquid in his hand.

"Ah well, that's the stuff my brothers and the other captains drink with their crews, coming ashore after some campaign. It's a kind of brandy, made from pomace and refined with different spices and some kind of resin. There are quite different qualities, this one being a rather good and mellow one."

She laughed softly, the corners of her eyes crinkling simultaneously. "But there's one the sailors dub "Bosun's Death", and that one is really wicked."

Éomer could not help a grin. " Little wonder, if it lives up to its name. This so called "mellow" variety nearly looped my gullet. But how come you know how to cope with it? Certainly you've never tried it?"

"Oh, haven't I?" Her smile turned into a grin. "When we were children, Amrothos and I used to play "Corsairs and Mariners" out on the bay. Our favourite was the attack on Umbar. Well, and one day, having played out that campaign, we decided to celebrate the due finale as well and pinched a flask from one of Father's captains. Not that it did us any good, but I insisted to have at least one draught each, challenging Roth to a second one, to prove his male superiority."

She chuckled. "Fortunately there was not too much brandy in the flask, as none of us wanted to yield. We were rather green in the face afterwards, but I have never been one to give up easily."

Éomer nodded. No, certainly not. Easy or dire, she would not give up at all. All of a sudden the events when overtaking Mardil assaulted his mind with a vibrancy that made him gasp.

_The rope slung around her her wrist, cutting deep, tearing skin and flesh ... Blood mixed with sea spray leaking along the creamy skin of her forearm ... Her contorted face, stubbornly gritted teeth ... Never one to easily give up ... The soaked cloth of her trousers clinging to her legs, exposing the well-cut muscles of her calf ... Toes pressed against the gunwale, gripping white ... The sensation of her wet body against his own, cold and hot at the same time ..._

He shook himself in the attempt to clear his mind. _The attack on Umbar... _His Umbar would be here and now. Looking into her face, he raised the cup to her. "Lothíriel of Dol Amroth, as we too have come ashore after a victorious campaign, smiting your foe, it would just be fair, according to your tradition, to share this cup."

He proffered the rest of the brandy to her, smirking, as she took it with both hands, and then his heart jumped into his throat as he watched her, slowly, determinedly turning the cup, until she was facing the spot of the brim he had drunk from. Ever so slowly she raised the cup under his fascinated stare, till it touched her lips. Then, tilting her head slightly backwards and closing her eyes, she emptied it in one draught.

Her eyes still closed, she shuddered, shook herself, and he felt a heat stronger than that of the drink rush like a fiery wave through his veins, setting his heart and loins alike on fire, as she flicked out the tip of her tongue just a tiny bit to lick the last burning drop off the brim.

And when she opened her eyes, dark grey, like the troubled waters at Aeglir Caragon, he felt himself drowning.


	15. Chapter 15

**Thank you all so much for your encouraging comments; you certainly made me very happy, though you gave me a bit of a bad conscience aswell. **

**So here's to all of you who were waiting for an update last week:  
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**Sorry for updating a bit late; the delay is due to a very nice one-week sailing trip on a traditional two-masted clipper on the Baltic Sea! (And no, I'm not in the slightest ashamed of making you green-eyed! ;-))**

**Warning: If you like the Horselord too much to stand the idea of him ...well ... embarrassing himself (I just can't think of any other innocuous phrase, though he himself does not care a horse's fart, as he told me ;-)), keep off and don't read!**

**I try to catch reality with all the nasty (or not so nasty) odds, so you are very welcome to complain if you think Im not realistic enough. ;-)  
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**Chapter15**

Slowly waking to the jubilant song of a blackbird at the break of day, Éomer lazily turned in bed, reaching for the smithereens of his dream, unwilling to let go the sensation it had stirred.

He felt a smile crawl over his face and sink into his heart, unfurling a wave of sated warmth. How good that felt ... He realized the familiar tug in his groin, not urgent, needy, like it had been in his dream, but somehow right, wholesome. He felt complete, sated, curled up in the warmth of his bed, feeling the slow, steady rhythm of his heart mingling with the blackbird's song, greeting the rising sun.

_What a dream!_ He stretched himself with a sigh.

_Her lithe body in his arms, her breath mingled with his own, … the silky waves of her night-coloured hair, raven wings caressing his face, ... the creamy colour of her skin, soft under the touch of his lips, ... so soft, belying the strength of her limbs, … his hands cupping her breasts, … those sinewy ankles, ... those tightly-sculptured calves, clamped around his hips, … those long, well-muscled thighs around his neck..._

He shook himself. He had to stop this or he would not be fit for his morning ridehe thought, grinning contentedly.

He sat up, pushing away the coverlet and with a surge of embarrassment noticed the clotted stickiness on his belly. Small wonder he had felt so relaxed when waking! With a shrug he shoved the sheets aside; it couldn't be helped, so what? Walking over to the screened-off area of the room for his morning ablutions, he couldn't help a wry grin. Sure he had provided a wonderful piece of domestics' gossip: the King of Rohan, soiling his sheets.

He should have taken matters in hand last night to prevent anything like that ... The tavern had been no option whatsoever, and it had taken him quite a time to fall asleep, his mind running wild with pictures of her ... But then, it had not been lust he had felt, pondering the events of the day ... Well at least not primarily. Lust had certainly been there, like it had been there during the whole day, seething now and then through him like a burning wave, but most of the remaining evening after sharing that cup he had felt a strange kind of solid contentedness, doing nothing but sitting there, listening to the family's conversation, feeling her sitting beside him, hearing her voice and seeing her smile ... that smile that had wrapped itself around his heart, warming him like a loving caress. _Béma, how he wanted to see her smile!_

Scrubbing the wet washcloth across his stomach, a thought hit him: What would she think of him, if she heard about him tossing off in his dreams? He thoughtfully sucked his teeth. Did she even know about such things? This was Gondor ... And if she knew, how would she react? Oh, she had reacted in his dream ... No, she had acted. Breathing deeply, he recalled the feeling of her long fingers, the calloused fingers of an archer, sliding down his flanks, encircling him...

With a desperate groan he threw the cloth into the washbasin. He had to stop this, or not even cold water would be of any help. No doubt: He needed some exercise!

**ooo**

The bleary-eyed boy sat up below the manger, straw criss-crossing his tousled hair. "My lord … Éomer King?"

"Good morning, Winfrid. What are you doing in Firefoot's box?" A sudden suspicion crossed Éomer's mind. "Did the men make you leave the barracks?"

Raking the bits of straw out of his hair, the boy shook his head. "No, my lord, it's not because of that. Éothain does not allow them to bring any women to the barracks. I just thought ..." His voice petered out and he blushed furiously.

"Well?" Éomer insisted.

The boy stood up, reaching around the big grey and patting him lightly. "You see, Firefoot doesn't obey me." Still flustered with embarrassment, he scratched his head. "I think, he doesn't even listen to me. So I thought ..."

The blush deepened, making the boy's ears shine with the intensity of corn poppy. Breathing deep, he tried a new start. "They all say, I'm a pathetic mock of a squire because I'm too small."

Éomer frowned. "Who says so? My guards?"

Reaching for the currycomb, Winfrid shook his head. "No, not them, Éothain would kick the shit … I mean, he would not let them, but I know they think the same as the stable hands in Edoras."

Avoiding his king's eyes, the boy started to groom the stallion. "It's not that they are wrong. I am small, I lack experience. I can't control Firefoot. You know what happened yesterday."

The steady-going movement of the currycomb seemed to calm the boy, and while his hands never ceased brushing the dappled coat, his voice grew more confident. "You see, he's a decent fellow, a great heart … if he knew me better, I mean … if he knew I like him, perhaps he would listen to me … because … because he would understand, you see. He would understand that I need him to come to me." The last words were hardly audible, mumbled into the grey's mane.

"So you slept in Firefoot's box for him to come to know you better?" Éomer smiled, remembering himself at Winfrid's age. Surely some things in the Mark never changed.

The boy nodded. "Grandfather told me to, when I got my first pony. Not that I would call Firefoot a pony, but company is company."

"You are right, and it may be a good idea to try with Firefoot. It is crucial for a Rider and his horse to know and trust each other."

The boy blushed again, this time grinning happily. "You see, Firefoot is a much better bed-fellow than the men of the guard anyway."

"Oh, is he?" Trying to conceal his own grin, Éomer took Firefoot's tack off the peg.

"Sure, Sire. He doesn't snore, and though he farts more than all six men together, he doesn't stink that much. And he never pukes."

"I would be surprised indeed if he did, " Éomer answered drily. The discipline of his guard seemed to lack considerably. "Were they all drunk yesterday?"

"Oh, no!" Winfrid straightened up, beaming with pride. "Our guards drank much less than the ones of Dol Amroth! And Éothain and Folcred almost stayed sober."

"Almost?" Éomer asked, spreading the saddlecloth on Firefoot's back.

"Yes." The boy nodded eagerly. "At least until the Prince Amrothos came and told us about … Oh!"

Winfrid eyed his Lord and King with uncertainty, blushing to the roots of his hair.

_That brat Amrothos!_ He would toast the day when Imrahil's son finally took abode in Umbar or even in Far Harad.

"So the Lord Amrothos came, and what happened then?" Trying for his most casual mien, Éomer smoothed the crinkles out of the saddlecloth.

"Well, he brought some wine and brandy for the soldiers, and they sang and toasted in the yard, and then the kitchen staff came over, and that was when I went to sleep in Firefoot's box."

"I see. Run over to the barracks and wake Éothain and Folcred."

While the boy sped away, Éomer heaved the saddle on Firefoot's back. When he looked up from fastening the surcingle, he found one of the grooms looking over the low door into the box, an old man with a mat of wavy grey hair, grinning from ear to ear, exposing what little teeth he still owned in a hearty attempt to be friendly.

"Good morning, my lord." The voice was deep and a bit raspy. "Just came to give the promised treat to the old boy."

From a wooden bucket he was holding, the man produced a small bunch of the little round carrots typical of the limy soil around Dol Amroth. Éomer at once recognised them as one of those unfamiliar vegetables he had liked exceedingly at Imrahil's table. They had been served with a spicy crust of breadcrumbs and brown butter, which had provided an interesting contrast to the tenderness of the slightly sweet carrots, that were so different from the much sturdier varieties that were cultivated in Rohan. Waving the bunch invitingly, the groom held it out to the big stallion, who took it eagerly.

"Ah well, that's something you like, eh?" Feeding two more carrots to the destrier, the old man turned towards Éomer. "Scrumped them from the kitchen garden. The glutton's really keen on them, and right he is. They're really a treat, crisp and tender as a maiden's tit."

Totally unconcerned about the King of Rohan, the man patted Firefoot's neck fondly. "And well you deserve them, old bugger, old acquaintance not forgotten."

Éomer raised his eyebrows in surprise. "You've met before?"

The old man nodded. "Was in Minas Tirith in the war, responsible for grooming Imrahil's cavalry." He made a rasping sound deep in his throat, as if he was going to spit but instead continued. "Mighty proud swanks, those chaps over there, but they know as much about horses as they know about fucking. Prince Imrahil wouldn't risk his horses with that twits. That's why I went ... anyway, couldn't stay behind with all the horses gone, could I? Wasn't easy for the wife though, me and the boys gone, but we were lucky, came all home safe and sound and with a nice piece of coin, too."

Éomer frowned. Sure, loot had always been part of any soldier's income, but he could not well comprehend how a Gondorean stablehand came at it. Feeling curious, he asked: "So you got a share of the loot?"

"No, as we grooms weren't in the fray ourselves we didn't, and that's all right with me." The old man chuckled. "No, I'm no hero. As it was, I was well behind the walls to care for the horses coming in, and even there I nearly shit bricks. It was later, when the people returned from Lossarnach that things started to pay off, what with the help of your boys."

"You had dealings with the Rohirrim?" Éomer felt slightly alarmed. From the Battle on the Pelennor till the departure of the main contingent in May there had been several thousand Rohirrim in and around Minas Tirith, so logically all kind of transactions might have taken place. Just what a stablehand from Dol Amroth, being a stranger himself in Mundburg had to do with it was beyond him.

The old man gave him a wary look. "Well," he drawled, " birds of a feather … and horse people and horse people are the like. And then the boys told me, that their horses were their own, as was their armour, them coming forth at the biding of the King for the muster."

Seeing the uncertainty in the groom's eyes, Éomer gave an affirmative nod. "That's absolutely correct. We do have standing forces, but most of the Riders are farmers and herdsmen, joining the army at need when the King calls them."

"Ah well, and that 's were the business starts." Feeling at ease now, the old man grinned from ear to ear. "See, there's no horses like the Rohirric ones. Not that the plonkers in Minas Tirith would understand, needing but some fast ones for their messengers and what not, but there's the farmers of the Pelennor and Lossarnach. They know the worth of endurance and tenacity. Well, and there was a bunch of blokes from that East Emnet, as they called it, horse-breeders' sons with some mighty fine stallions. Mind you, the farmers have no use for any warhorses, but along the river the soil is marshy, fertile like muck, but heavy. That's where they need strong and reliable horses."

He gave Éomer a side glance, but sensing no reproach, he continued. "I would contact the farmers and inspect the mares, as we didn't want to take any risk, they provided the stallions and in the end we shared the stud-fee, with everyone involved happy."

Éomer laughed. "Seems I've come too late with my trade negotiations. You were well ahead with it."

"Ah, it's always good to have useful neighbours." Patting the stallion for a last time, the old groom picked up his bucket, and went to distribute the ordinary kind of carrots to the other horses, while Éomer finished bridling Firefoot to lead him out into the sunny yard in front of the stables.

Éothain and Folcred were still not in sight, so Éomer set down on a mounting block, stretching his long legs. The skin on his nose and cheekbones prickled slightly, the sunburn he had not realised yesterday due to the wind becoming noticeable.

Closing his eyes, he breathed in the mixture of horse, hay and the honeysuckle that was climbing a nearby walnut tree, and his memory drifted back to his childhood, following the herds across the Emnet in spring, looking out for new foals under the watchful eye of Eadric, his father's stablemaster.

Éomer could not remember Eadric but old, beard and hair nearly white, but still tall and healthy. As a young man he had been injured severely in a warg attack, leaving him with a heavy limp, but once that man had sat a horse, he had turned into a god. There had been no one who had not admired him, and though his face had been badly scared, no woman he had set his eyes at would turn him down … no one but Burhred. Short, round and fierce still in her sixties, she had been a force of nature as they said in her youth. She had led him quite a dance until she at last had given in and married him, the people joking about Eadric finally taming his personal warg.

Éomer had loved being with them as a boy, their rough fondness for each other radiating in their vicinity like a glowing sod of peat in the hearth on a wet and cold winter evening, warming limb and soul. Their love had been so entirely different from the devotion his parents had shown for each other ... and yet it had been the same steadfast and absolute merging.

When Burhred, being well into her eighties, had died of the coughing disease that every early spring swept the plains, mostly felling the very young and the very old, few had expected Eadric to last more than a few weeks without her. "He's just waiting for this year's foals to be born," his children had said and been puzzled when he had lived on afterwards, withered and not taking much notice any more of the ongoings around him until at the end of June the fireweed had started to bloom. Then he had demanded his daughter to lay out his best clothes for him, and one morning, when the plains had been covered in a veil of pink, they had found him gone in the morning.

Searching for him with his hunting dogs, his eldest son had discovered him, lying on his back amidst the flowers, dressed as for a feast, his face calm and content, clutching a bunch of fireweed to his chest. It had been then that his children had remembered the yearning with which their mother had awaited its bloom every year and realised that he had only waited for that.

Fireweed, that herald of summer, token of life persisting. With a sigh Éomer lifted his face to the sun, his eyes still closed, recalling those early summer nights of his childhood out on the plains, sitting at the campfire after a busy day, listening to tales and low-voiced songs, till the gentle softness of the night wrapped itself around him like a velvet blanket, soft as a horse's muzzle, mothering him to sleep.

And there had been that night, when Eadric had lectured them on martial life. How old had he himself been then? Eight? Nine? He was not sure, but he still remembered the atmosphere: a group of boys, him being the youngest, some lads and Eadric having been out for branding the foals, the elder ones cracking jokes that Éomer had not fully understood then at the expense of Cenhelm, who had been planning to get married that summer.

And then Ealdric had spoken to them, the marred half of his face a demonic mask in the flickering of the fire, his keen eyes glinting like half-hidden steel, but his voice deep, enchanting, drawing the boys in, soothing them, as it soothed the scared young foals after the touch of the marking iron.

Smiling contentedly to himself, Éomer realised that though he had been too young to understand the ribald jokes, he had well understood Eadric's tale and had never forgotten it.

"Marriage is as simple and as difficult as making a good porridge. The basics you need for both are some fuel and a cauldron.

You lads are the fuel, burning up in the attempt to keep the fire going, and it is your task to provide a gentle and constant heat. Why? You'll see. Flaring fire may be excused in the beginning, till the water starts boiling so to say, but have a care not to burn up to soon. You'll have to last a whole life, not to die away like a dowsed torch after the first turn. And for the final cooking, that is life-long happy marriage, gentle fire is needed, gentle and lasting, lest your porridge sticks to the sides of the cauldron and gets burnt.

The cauldron, that's your wife. And well you do to aim for one fitting to your flames: not too big and not too small. And be careful, lads. Not the biggest, not the most shiny one is the best. Don't let yourself be dazzled by decoration and adornment, look for the solid material, the smooth surface, the well-worked and proven. A golden cauldron may please the eye, for every day's fire and cooking it's useless. A decorated one may attract attention, but how to keep it clean, how to keep the porridge from getting burnt in all the recesses and nooks? A crack might not cause too much problems in the beginning, but with daily use it might open and spoil all your labour. So chose carefully.

Well, and once you have that, the porridge making can start. The first thing you have to put in is some water: clear and fresh. That's your and your wife's thoughts and determination. Clear as the water you should be to each other, flowing into the same direction, providing the foundation for anything to come.

Then you add the oats: sustaining and healthy. That's the trust and reliability of both of you, the support you give each other in the daily struggle for life. And mind you: If you have that, you and your people can survive, as long as the fire keeps going and the cauldron doesn't break, for that are the most important ingredients.

But if you are lucky, you get some more to put into it. Cream: thick and sweet. That's the care and sympathy you show each other. Not necessary to survive, but as the cream in the porridge turns some tasteless though nourishing glue into something nice, it gives you a taste of what life can be.

And to top all this, there is honey to go into our porridge: delicious and enticing. That's passion and desire, to brighten up your life and make you enjoy each other.

But all this is nothing in the long last: It feeds you, it keeps you, true, but to keep you healthy in body and soul there is something more to go into your porridge, though it requires just a tiny dash of it: salt. Though it does not flatter the tongue, it is essential for Man and livestock. Without salt, the fattest pastures are of no avail. And that tiny dash, that is so important, that's love: the bitter but life-saving that makes the sweet the sweeter."

What a story teller Eadric of the East Emnet had been! Éomer opened his eyes, looking over the sunlit stable yard. Some sparrows were quarrelling over some horse droppings in the shade of the big trough, here and there hawkbit grew in the chinks between the cobblestones, little yellow suns in the black and grey pavement.

He shifted his weight and as if following a familiar path, he started to ponder the validity of Eadric's analogy on his own attempts.

Water: Oh, she was more than fitting, of that he was sure, and had she not given proof of her intelligence and determination?

Oats: Had they not been open to each other, had they not trusted each other, allowing the other an unveiled look into each other's souls?

Cream: Had she not concerned herself with him from the first moment? Could it be true, what Amrothos had said, that she cared for him? Of his own care for her he was more than sure.

_Béma, had it really been only one day?_

Honey: He smiled wryly. There was not doubt of his own desire, probably by now the servants were already giggling, and about hers? Had she not invited him to kiss her that moment on the battlement, wrapped in his arms, her eyes hazed? And what about her piratey attack with that incredible brandy? In his mind he saw her lips touch the brim of the cup, her tongue liking her lower lip ... _Béma that woman was bold!_

He had it all … They had it all … But would there grow love? Would he know when it was there? What would it feel like? What had it been, that had wrought his parents' souls together, till they had been inseparable, intertwined like damascened steel?

Salt: _The bitter that makes us feel the sweet_. For Theodwyne there had only been the bitter in the end.

It had been the first incurable pain of his life. He shook himself. It was no use to brood about it for still another time and yet ... His mother had been young, she had had her children to love and care for ... Éomund's children, then how could she simply give up fighting like that?

The old familiar ache got hold of his heart, not as fierce as in the first years after their parents' death, leaving him and Éowyn orphaned at the age of twelve and eight, but still ache it was, dull and throbbing. Why had she left them? She, who had never been weak, but always passionate and determined? How many times had he pondered this? How many times feeling deserted and betrayed? Growing up he had understood the love his mother must have felt for her husband, but that nagging feeling of being left behind had never ceased.

And then, for the first time in the sixteen years that had passed since his parents' death a thought struck him: What if his mother had died first? And with a grim sense for reality he had to admit to himself: His father would not have lasted for long without her either. Sure, Éomund of Eastfold, Marshal of the Mark, would not have succumbed to illness and grieve, but how easy was it for a warrior to seek and find death in battle. And with the situation given then: How likely the next pursuit of raiding orcs would have been the desired end of a life devoid of meaning?

He raked his fingers through his hair and blinked into the early morning's sun. It was time to make his peace with his mother ... his parents, and to leave the past behind.

Firefoot's soft snorting alerted him to somebody's approach. Turning his head, he saw Éothain and Folcred crossing the yard, a seemingly nervous Winfrid in tow.

When they came nearer, Éomer noticed that Folcred's right hand was badly bruised, his middle finger looking twice as thick as normal. Frowning he asked his guard: "What happened to your hand?"

Avoiding his gaze, Folcred straightened up. "Nothing, Sire."

"So you want me to believe that you accidentally ran into a wall that all of a sudden jumped into your way?" Éomer's face did not give away any of his emotions, but his voice was dripping with sarcasm.

Folcred swallowed. "No, Sire."

"Look," Éothain interjected, supporting his young subaltern, "there was some booze-up yesterday night, and..."

"And what?" Éomer snapped. "The Royal Guard of the Mark ending up in some drunken brawl?"

"Not that you never did," Éothain muttered under his breath. Noticing the furious glance that Éomer shot him, he straightened up. "No, Sire."

Éomer waved him down. "Just tell me what happened and have done with it."

Shrugging, his face clearly displaying the unease he felt, Éothain reported. "Well, it was that orc-brew Imrahil's son dumped on the boys, when they already were quite ratted. That stuff scorches your brain away. The lads are just not used to it."

"Wrap it up, man! What are you trying to prepare me for? A full scale alley fight?" Éomer's patience was running low. Turning to Folcred, he demanded: "Who did you hit?"

Swallowing hard and avoiding his king's eyes, Folcred said: "Berhtulf, Sire."

"Berhtulf? "Éomer was flabbergasted. Folcred and Berhtulf had been closest friends since childhood. "How come?"

Struggling for an answer, Folcred looked pleadingly at his captain, and with an assuring nod, Éothain took over. "Éomer King, Berhtulf was besides himself, pissed as a fart. Well, and then there was the kitchen staff..."

"The lasses you mean," Éomer interrupted.

"No, more or less the whole staff and some others of the servants as well, I deem." Éothain shrugged. "Actually we had a full scale feast, what with the food for the called off festivities, and as for the drink ... Well, you know."

Éomer nodded wryly. "I certainly do. What I don't know is why my standard bearer broke his hand in the face of his friend and comrade."

Éothain chewed his lower lip. "They were plastered."

"You've said so repeatedly," Éomer interrupted, his voice cutting.

Éothain's face started to turn reddish. _Béma's balls, if it was something Éothain was embarrassed by, it had to be severe!_

"As I said," Éothain continued with obvious hesitation, "they were drunk, the women no less than the men."

"And?"

"Berhtulf grabbed one of the women, who had shown interest in him and started to canoodle her."

"And she turned him down?"

"I'm afraid she was much too sloshed to do so."

Éomer groaned in frustration. That was the last thing he needed: A member of the Royal Guard, molesting some intoxicated woman.

"So that is were you stepped in?" he asked, turning to Folcred.

"Not exactly, Sire."

Rising his eyebrows, Éomer looked back to Éothain.

"Well," Éothain cleared his throat in a cumbersome way, "the woman obviously was one of the servants' sweetheart or … " Avoiding Éomer's gaze pointedly, Éothain finished in a second attempt: "Well, wife. We don't know for sure. Anyway, the man stood up to Berhtulf and complained, but you see, he never stood a chance, as Berhtulf simply showed him aside. We tried to talk some sense into Berhtulf, but he was totally pissed and would not listen to anything and anyone, so Folcred gave him a tap on the point of his chin and that ended the discussion."

"I could not stand by and let him disgrace the Mark and himself." Folcred's voice was choked.

Folding his hands behind his back, Éomer straightened up to his complete impressive height. "I see." Balancing on the balls of his feet, it took him some will-power to restrain his temper.

"Captain!" His voice was biting.

Sensing the lay of the land, Éothain sprung to attention. "Yes, Sire."

"We will leave the day after tomorrow. As long as we are in Dol Amroth there's no more booze and no more wenching. That's an order. Folcred, get yourself to the healer's. Éothain, we're off for a ride as soon as you've saddled. Winfrid is coming in Folcred's stead."

"Éomer King, I'm not having you ride without guard and worse, mail." Adopting an official air, Éothain emphasised the Captain-of-the-Guard attitude.

Éomer snorted. "What use would it be to drag some rat-arsed blokes around to air their hangovers?"

"They didn't get drunk on purpose," Éothain tried to defend the guards, "that brew was unpredictable. You should have tried that concoction."

"I have," Éomer grinned, "and that is why I refrain from chopping off your balls. Come on, let's get going."

"Not without mail," Éothain insisted stubbornly.

"I'll go and fetch it, my lord." Winfrid's eager voice reminded Éomer of his responsibilities and grudgingly he nodded his consent. He needed the exercise and distraction a ride would provide, even if, for the sake of the Mark, he had to wear that dratted mail.


	16. Chapter 16

**I'm absolutely thrilled how many of you are reading this story and would like to thank you all for your interest, especially those of you who took pains to tell me about their impressions. **

**I just hope, you will enjoy reading this chapter as much as I did writing it.**

**Chapter 16**

Approaching the castle again after a two-hours ride that had given horse and rider the exercise their bodies had craved for, they passed the training grounds of Dol Amroth's famous archers. Éomer was intrigued. Using bows not as large as those of the rangers of Ithilien, they still had quite an impressive range and were famous for their accuracy. Standing in a line before the targets, their bows lowered in one hand, they seemed to wait for a signal from the chief-archer.

And then Éomer spotted her, clad in simple grey raiment, her black hair combed strictly out of her face, her back straight, the bow in her hands only slightly smaller than those of the men beside her. Only now he noticed a target a bit closer to the base line, adapted to the lesser range of her bow. She did not see him, deep in concentration, set on the task before her.

Then the signal of the instructor came. Hands flashed to the quivers, nocked arrows, pulled bowstrings, shot, and without a second of hesitation reached for the next arrow. The twanging of the strings, the swishing of the arrows, the thudding noise as they hit the the straw butts filled the air till the chief-archer whistled to announce the end of the training sequence.

Lowering their bows, the archers went to the targets to count their hits. Éomer could not help a chuckle at the rush of pride he felt, seeing that Lothíriel's arrows had all hit at least close to the mark. Fast and effective. She was certainly impressive.

When the chief-archer greeted him respectfully, the princess became aware of Éomer, and handing her bow and quiver to one of the assisting boys, she came over, greeting him with a friendly smile. "I see you made good use of the morning's coolness."

Dismounting he returned her smile. "There's nothing like a ride at the break of day."

She nodded, the corners of her eyes crinkling, as she was trying to hide the taint of mischief that stole into her smile. "Some exercise is truly useful and keeps from harm and embarrassment."

Éomer groaned inwardly. How fast did servants' gossip travel in Dol Amroth or was she merely referring to Firefoot's antics? He felt the treacherous heat of a profound blush crawl up his neck. She truly knew to hit the mark, not only on the practise field. In an attempt to change the subject, he pointed at the training grounds. "Do you come here often?"

She nodded. "As often as I can afford. It's traditional for Gondorean noblewomen to do archery, though I have to admit that most of them would not practise with the soldiers. But Dol Amroth's chief-archer Edrahil is the best teacher of archery you can get all along the Falas. So if I really want to be good, I have to practise under his administration."

"You put a lot of pain into being good, don't you?" Where did the urge to push her off her balance, make her lower that mask of polite confidence, come from?

She shrugged. "If something is not worth being done as well as you can, it's not worth doing it at all." Giving him a wry smile, she continued: "Once I have decided to do something, I like to be as good as possible, no matter what it is."

"Oh, do you? No matter what it is?" Raising his eyebrows, he grinned at her, satisfied as she coloured under his gaze. But though her cheeks glowed with embarrassment, she never lowered her eyes, but rather lifted her chin in challenge, locking her gaze with his. Challenge accepted! He realised she would not back down and it exhilarated him like a swig of some rich mead. The dance was up, or rather the duel? No, he corrected himself, she certainly would give battle, but this was no fight to the death but the play of power of the sparring ground, their very own personal battle of words and wits.

Her next remark was pointed like a stabbing dagger, though her voice remained cool as a mountain stream. "There might be arts I don't know much about, but I'm sure that can be altered. And I have been told that the key of success in any art is practise." Parried and charged! She surely was bold. He had to strike the mark soon, or he would be lost. How far would she dare to go?

Grinning rakishly, he nodded his approval. "True my Lady Princess, but not only in archery you should never underestimate the importance of a good teacher."

Éothain desperately cleared his throat behind him, but Éomer was already too deep in the verbal sparring to heed the warning. She had accepted his challenge … or had he accepted hers? It did not matter any more. She had accepted him! No polite "Gonorean princess attitude " this time, but cutting wit instead, a parade, a display of wits and will. Enjoying himself tremendously, Éomer squinted his eyes, waiting for her next charge.

She did not snort, as he had expected her to do, but her nostrils twitched, as she threw her head back, raising her eyebrows in fake arrogance. "You may rest assured I never would. The best will be just good enough."

Éomer found it difficult to keep his breathing even. That toss of the head, like a mare's, summoning the stallion to follow her over the plains._ And Béma, follow her he would!_ He was grateful he was wearing that mail shirt, keeping his incipient arousal from display. Yet he would not step back either. His voice little louder than a low purr, he countered. "I'm not sure if I am up to your request but I would be delighted to be of service."

Bull's eye! A furious blush shot over her features and ebbed away, leaving red spots on her cheekbones and throat. But she did not leave him much time to relish his victory. With just a hint of hoarseness in her voice she stated: "I'll think about it. Perhaps we could reach some agreement, and I could teach you something in exchange."

With the fighter's instinct Éomer realised the looming danger. She was proud, not willing to retreat, but that made her reckless, advancing on treacherous ground. He would not have her embarrass herself unduly, even if that meant to back down himself. He had to take the tension out of this, had to change the direction of their talk. Cocking his head, he asked: "Like swearing in Quenja?"

The diversion worked, making her snort with laughter. "Oh, it's not only Quenja. I like to collect … certain expressions, so perhaps you could teach me some Rohirric ones."

Relived and strangely disappointed at the same time, he took her hand, brushing a kiss over her knuckles. "I would love to, my lady, but I have to admit that I would prefer some other words to be the basic ones in your vocabulary of my language."

Sensing his change of mood immediately, she grew serious. "And which would that be?"

He felt his heart beat in his throat, challenge, banter and power play seeming insignificant and petty all of a sudden. His voice steady and firm, he enunciated what he judged to be the cornerstone of martial life: "Bieldu and truwa."

Looking at him with a grave expression, she tilted her head. "Bieldu and truwa," she repeated in a low voice. "It sounds convincing the way you say it, yet was does it mean in Westron?"

"Reliance and trust," he replied, still holding her hand.

Squeezing his hand, she nodded. "That truly are words I would like to base my knowledge not only of your language on."

At that moment the boy came up with the princess' horse, and pulling her gloves from her belt, where she had tucked them away, she made to don them, only to be forestalled by Éomer, with one smooth move.

"May I?" Taking the gloves out of her hand, he first presented the opening of the left one to her. "Please, hold out your hand, my lady," he said softly, pulling the suede leather glove over her left hand, before repeating the same procedure with the right one, his fingers sliding along her palm ever so lightly.

Her eyes widened at the subtle caress and her hand trembled slightly, but her bearing remained proud and erect, her mien even, not giving away anything. Half-heartedly he scolded himself for exploiting the opportunity, but then shrugged his misgivings off. Was he not to woo her? Had she not signalled her content. It was no longer "if", it was "when", and he desperately wanted an answer. Stepping besides her horse, her turned to her. "Let me help you mount."

She nodded her consent, and pulling on his own gloves, he bent down, folding his hands for her to step into them. Straightening up, he lifted her into the saddle, and for a short moment her thigh pressed against his chest, this time making him regret he was wearing mail. Their eyes met again and with a jolt he realised that hers mirrored the same odd mixture of triumph and uncertainty he felt himself. He swallowed, realising that her touch had not been accidental at all. _Truly a pirate_ _princess, bold and reckless._ He felt another wave of desire rush through his veins, causing his groin to tighten in a most precarious way. _How could that woman agitate him like that? _Bowing his head slightly, he turned to mount his own horse, and only then he noticed that all along they had been in the centre of about the complete archery unit of Dol Amroth.

**ooo**

Riding silently side by side, they made for the castle, Éothain and Winfrid following behind, together with two guards in the colours of Dol Amroth who accompanied the princess. Following the bridle-path through a shadow-flecked copse of pines, they reached the upper meadows, which were welcoming them with an impressive view over Cobas Haven. The sun was already covering the horizon in a veil of haze, but the breeze from the sea still kept the heat at bay.

It was only now that Éomer noticed that Lothíriel's horse was by no means one of those amble gaited palfreys, but a rather spirited young gelding only slightly lighter in frame than his own destrier. Out of the corners of his eye he watched her posting to the trot and found himself regretting that her thighs were obscured by her raiment, one of those quite voluminous Gondorean riding skirts. Upbraiding himself, he tried to direct his thoughts in a different direction, but found it extremely difficult. Even staring straight ahead, he sensed the up and down of the lithe body next to him, his fantasy doing somersaults, imagining the firm pressure of her legs.

For a split second he thought to lead his own horse closer, just for a chance of their knees to touch, make it look like an accidental move, but the thought of the guards following behind made him change his mind. Éothain would never believe in anything accidental as long as handling a horse was involved.

With a wry sense of humour he realised that his thoughts were affirming every single prejudice those Gondoreans ever had had about the Rohirrim. But then: How dead had any entire man to be not to get thrilled through a sight like that? Realising he was unashamedly justifying his own boorishness, or rather his imagination running wild only partly sobered him, and only the thought of the gossip Lothíriel might be confronted with brought him to terms.

Reaching the main road towards the castle, they had to slow down due to several wains and carts heading for the town at a much slower pace, and while walking Firefoot besides her, he decided to at least try to apologise for the embarrassment he had caused her in front of the archers.

Clearing his throat, he tried to get her attention. "My lady, please forgive my previous behaviour. I did not intend to embarrass you." He felt himself sounding wooden and formal.

Facing him squarely, she asked: "So you regret what you said and did?"

_Béma, could that woman say anything without challenging him?_ Aiming for a casual tone he said: "No, not in the least. But I regret having done so in front of an audience."

She did not lower her eyes, and the corners of her lips twitched. "That did not keep you from doing it."

She had a point there, he grudgingly admitted to himself. There was nothing but a forthright answer. "True, and therefore I deserve censure. I had simply forgotten they were there."

She raised her eyebrows in mock surprise. "That from a skilled warrior can certainly be taken as a compliment." Shaking her head lightly, she continued after a short while: "As it is, it was me who started the banter, and I suppose it got awkward because I did not want to yield."

So she knew! And yet she had held on, like during that mad race outboards the heeling boat. His gaze went to her bandaged wrist of its own volition. _Rohan's colours … _No, she would never yield. "You don't like to give in." The admiration he felt rang in his statement.

She shrugged. "I don't like to lose control. And yet that exactly was happening. I was out on unfamiliar ground, but I didn't want to admit it."

He was amazed at her open self-criticism. "Were you?"

She snorted. "Éomer of Rohan, I might be quite forward, and being with my brothers I truly don't mince my words, but I assure you, it's not my habit to trade suggestive remarks with foreign men."

_She truly would call a spade a spade!_ He vainly tried to suppress a grin. "Oh, I thought it was. You were quite good at it."

She lifted her nose in the air with exorbitant haughtiness, her eyes sparkling with mirth. "I was just about to thank you for keeping me from making a fool of myself as I was most relieved about your changing the topic, but I'll reconsider that."

His grin deepened. "I thought I had already embarrassed you enough."

Laughing she bent forwards to pat her horses neck. "As a matter of fact the only one you probably really embarrassed is your guard."

"You are a keen observer." Something Imrahil's offspring had obviously in common, Éomer thought, remembering Amrothos' remark on Tol Cobas.

She nodded. "I have been trained to be since I was a child. Supervising a royal household is in many aspects comparable to leading an army into battle; and it has to be done daily. And to be able to accomplish that task you have to be informed. You have to watch the people around you if you want to know what is going on first hand, to watch and listen, though certainly servants' gossip... "

She stopped abruptly, tilting her head to avoid his eyes, and he saw the blush creep up her neck, reaching her cheeks and ears. _That much for pondering if she knew!_

It took her not more than a short moment to regain her composure. Still blushing, she turned to him, waving a hand in Winfrid's direction. "Well, among other scandals I was informed that your standard bearer broke his hand, knocking out another one of your guards who was obviously trying to get under Aerin's skirts."

"True, but all of them were totally intoxicated, thanks to some of the dratted swill Amrothos provided them with." If she had aimed at distracting him from his own mishap she certainly had succeeded, though he would have preferred any other topic.

"I doubt my brother was any better off himself," she said, her face and her voice concerned. "He has not turned up at his rooms yet. It's not easy for him. All his life there had been a constant rivalry for my affection between Erchirion and him and now you turned up and … "

"There is another rival?" Her nod made him remember his own feelings towards Faramir those last months. He had liked the man, known that Éowyn loved him dearly, and yet there had been moments he had hated him with all his heart for taking his sister away from him.

"Anyway, he should not have given that brandy to the people," she continued, her voice sounding vexed. "It's always difficult to maintain moderation with it. It must have been a true shock for poor Magor to find his wife in such a state."

Éomer found his palms starting to sweat. "My man did not know she was married, and I was informed that she did not reject him."

Looking at him, shook her head. "Nobody said so. She should not have drunk after all, what with being pregnant."

"What?" Firefoot tossed his head irritatedly, as Éomer in his shock had pulled the reigns tight.

Lothíriel waved dismissively. "She's in her fourth month or something and plump as a robin. There's still nothing to be seen, so your man can hardly be blamed for not considering. But an expecting mother drinking is not good for the child, and Aerin should have known about the urge."

"What urge?" Éomer was flabbergasted how matter-of-factly she was taking the event. Was this not Gondor anymore? Though, he had to admit, the bottom line was that anything seriously offending had been forestalled by Folcred's well-placed punch.

"Well." Giving him a side glance, she cleared her throat. "When pregnant, most women seem to feel some kind of increased desire, at least that's what the midwife told my sister in law."

_If that's true I'm expecting twins._ Éomer had to chuckle at the ridiculousness of his own thought. How good it felt to have her at his side, how easily she was dispelling his misgivings.

"What are you chuckling about?" Her frown dug a deep crease right above the root of her nose, contradicting her laughing eyes.

"Nothing in particular, I'm just being silly. But then you said it was becoming to me. Remember: "boyish"?" He gave her a wink and could not help but laugh at her display of fake indignation.

Giving a convincing example of affected prissiness, she stated snootily: "As a matter of fact your current facial expressions would rather deserve the labelling "rakish".

He had to admit to himself that that was exactly what he felt like: rakish, irresponsible and incredibly happy. Grinning at her, he found his own mirth mirrored in her face. Béma, he wanted to do something stupid, like kiss her nose, nip her earlobe …

The pothole that came into sight right ahead of them in the middle of the road offered just the opportunity he was looking for. Leading Firefoot to pass it on the left, it would bring him close enough for their legs to sideswipe. He was just about to nudge the big grey to the left, when the princess' gelding abruptly swerved, as if to pass the hole on the right side. Checking his stallion immediately, Éomer managed to avoid a headlong collision, but the gelding, not being fully trained yet, did not react likewise to Lothíriel's cue, consequently bumping with his right shoulder into Firefoot's side. The destrier sidestepped, snorting angrily, but pulling her horse back, the princess kept the gelding out of danger area.

Having sped to the princess' side immediately, Éothain shot his king a sour look, before falling back again to keep the befitting distance. Cursing under his breath, Éomer shot her a worried glance, but Lothíriel seemed totally unimpressed, and just nudged her horse forward, speaking reassuringly to the still skittish gelding. Feeling rather deflated, Éomer pulled up beside her, and only then he noticed the mirth in her eyes, she obviously found difficult to control.

"Shall we discuss who embarrassed who now?" She was looking straight ahead and her voice was still cool, but like sunbeams reflecting in a stream, there was laughter hidden closely below the surface.

"I think we both embarrassed our horses this time," Éomer said drily.

"Oh, we certainly did!" She was giggling like a little girl now. "We should make amends once we are back at the castle and visit the kitchen gardens for some treats."

"No doubt we should. Though I would suggest to go there without our mounts, lest the cook becomes suspicious." He wondered if there still were any carrots left after the old groom's raids.

Hiccuping with laughter, she turned to face him: "Éomer King, do you realise that we are being silly?"

"My Lady Princess, I assure you I have never been more serious, except perhaps when suggesting the official footwear at state visits in the Mark to be bare skin." Éomer deadpanned.

Beaming at him, she gave a funny little sigh. "I have truly never enjoyed embarrassing myself that much in all my life."

**ooo**

The stable yard was buzzing with life now, horses being watered and groomed, stablehands with wheelbarrows carrying horse-droppings to the dungheap, while others were still mucking stables and feeding horses. On their appearance in the yard, stable boys ran up to them to retrieve their horses, but Winfrid, after an encouraging nod from his king, proudly took Firefoot's reins and led the destrier away.

Éomer turned to assist the princess, but Lothíriel had already dismounted. Smiling she turned to him. "We'd better adjourn our excursion to the kitchen gardens, as it is already quite late and I would not like my parents waiting for us".

Nodding his consent, he proffered his arm to her, and as she slipped her hand through the crook of his arm, she said in a playful tone: "You should teach me some more words in Rohirric. Will you?"

Motioning to Éothain to follow them, as he would need some help to remove the mail, Éomer led the princess of Dol Amroth towards the archway that connected the stables and general working areas to the main yard, the central area of representation. "Certainly, as far as you desire anything apart from colourful curses and swearwords, for those I'm sure you will learn soon enough."

"I bet I will. But no, tell me the words for _fun_ and _laughter_." Her head cocked, she gave him a side glance.

Smiling he complied with her request."_Glíeg_ and _hliehhan_, and you should also know _wynn_, which means _joy_."

Her face showed sincere interest. "Oh, so _Éowyn_ means...?"

"_Joy in horses_, _eoh_ meaning _horse_."

"So _Éomer_ means what?" Her head tilted, she eyed him with a smile.

"_Maerlic_ means _famous_"

Jerking to a stop, she looked at him, one eye squeezed shut. "_Famous horse_?"

Éomer guffawed. "Not exactly, it's rather _famous for horses_, but your version would fit in wonderfully with the image the Gondoreans have of the Rohirrim, wouldn't it?"

Totally unabashed she joined in his laughter. "Ah, I would rather have a name including _horses_ than that meek and mild _flower-garlanded maiden."_

"I think it's a rather nice name and I certainly like the sound of it, but if you want to change it, what about _Éobeirnan?_" Though he tried to keep his expression blank, she caught the mischief in his eyes.

Gazing at him suspiciously, she raised one elegant eyebrow. "And what does that _beirnan_ mean?"

"_Collide_," he said, trying in vain to keep a straight face.

"You!" She rammed her elbow in his ribs, in a futile attempt to appear miffed.

"Ouch! Striving to live up to the new name? I think I prefer the _flower-garlanded maiden_." In mock hurt he rubbed his side, before adding: "But tell me, how did you come to ride that semi-trained charger at all? Don't tell me it's your own mount."

She shook her head. "No, it's Erchirion's. He has had him in training for little more than seven months now. He lost both his old charger and his remount in the war, and this one is a present, Mother gave him after the war. I don't have a mount of my own at the moment, but I never have been one for those palfreys anyway, rather preferring to ride any of my mother's rounceys. As it is, my own horse went to war as Amrothos' remount, and … We did not solely lose men in the war."

"No, we didn't." He took a deep breath. There it was again: War and death inextricably interwoven with their lives, none of them unscathed, none of them ever able to get rid of the memories, yet ready to face the future, never shrinking from the duty their past had laid upon their shoulders. _Bieldu_... There was no doubt of his reliance in her. And didn't she trust him? He wanted her answer, and they had only two more days!

Coming to a halt, he turned directly to her. "Lothíriel, I'm afraid I need to teach you as well another expression in the language of the Mark."

"And that would be?" Her eyes were grave, as she sensed his seriousness.

"_Scéad_," he said, "_Leave-taking. _I'm going to leave for Edoras in two days time."

Slowly she nodded, her face in a thoughtful expression. "You are needed there, and you would always reproach yourself for not using the months till winter comes as best as possible."

How her hand had slid into his own he never knew, but as they continued their way in silence, their fingers intertwined in mutual understanding.

Passing under the archway, they noticed Prince Imrahil standing at the bottom of the flight of steps that led up to the castle in conversation with a richly clad young noble man.

"Oh, no!" Lothíriel breathed, hesitating for a split second, "Radhruin of Pelargir."

"Who's that?" Éomer asked, alarmed by her uneasiness.

Before Lothíriel could answer, Imrahil lifted his head and looked in their direction. Not wanting to embarrass the princess, Éomer made to let go her hand, but she held on to it, giving it a short assuring squeeze, before squaring her shoulders, all nervousness now having left her .

"Are you up to taking the wind out of someone else's sails?" Her voice was low and she did not look at him, but her voice radiated confidence. Looking straight ahead, she faced her father and the young man, a polite smile on her face.

Éomer chuckled. "As ballast, my Lady Pirate?"

That typical snort, though slightly suppressed. "No, as booty." The laughter in her voice was unmistakable, yet her face remained unmoved.

"As long as it's not as anchor," he replied, trying to keep a straight face, remembering Amrothos' remark before the race.

"I would not count on that if I were you." It was a mere whisper, but her small hand twitched slightly in his big one before they stepped forward to address her father and his guest. The man at Imrahil's side eyed Éomer appraisingly, his features displaying obvious haughtiness.

"Wlanclic ears," Éothain muttered behind them.

A wry smile appeared on Lothíriel's face. Without averting her eyes from the men they were approaching, she whispered: "Obviously some most important expression, don't you think so, my lord?"

"One that would certainly fit into your collection, my lady, though I would advise to refrain from using it right now." Éomer struggled to keep a straight face.

The corners of her mouth twitching slightly, she let go of Éomer's hand and stepped up to the two men.

"Welcome, Lord Radhruin." Giving the young noble a short nod of the head, she turned to her father.

"My Lord Father," she said, with the meekest possible expression on her face, "I am happy to confirm, that King Éomer has agreed with your assumption to announce the betrothal at dinner tonight, though no feast should be held due to the casualty."

Not a muscle twitched in Prince Imrahil's face, as he bowed his acknowledgement to Éomer, while Radhruin of Pelargir had a visible problem to keep his countenance.

They had obviously sunk another status-conscious Gondorean noble's boat.

**Annotations:**

In this chapter some medieval expressions for different types of horses are used, **charger** being a common word for any kind of war horse, whereas **destrier** was used for a warhorse of the highest quality. (Destriers were always stallions.) A **rouncy **was some kind of all-purpose horse, a **palfrey** a riding-horse.

**wlanclic ears:** (Rohirric/Anglo-Saxon) arrogant arse


	17. Chapter 17

**So here comes the last chapter of the current story. I would like to thank all of you for dedicating some of your time reading, reviewing, subscribing or whatever you did to and with it. ;-D**

**I hope you enjoyed reading, and I especially hope you will enjoy this chapter. Hey, folks: It is the last one, but it is by far the longest!**

**I will quit (at least for a while), as RL is very demanding at the moment, but who knows: The wedding is supposed to be in March, so perhaps the next "report" might come then, directly from the horses mouth, er... from Edoras I mean.**

**Thank you again and fare you well.**

**Thanwen  
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**Chapter 17**

Brushing his still damp hair, Éomer eyed the clothes laid out for him on his bed wearily. An afternoon spent in negotiations about the wedding contract had done nothing to improve his mood, and even the cool, juniper-scented water he had sloshed over his sweaty body had brought no real relief. Now it would be an official dinner, the announcement of the betrothal, so there was no chance to forego the full regalia despite the heat of the day that still lingered.

What bothered him even more was the fact that since her surprising and pirate-style announcement in the morning there had been no chance to talk to Lothíriel in private.

He donned his breeches and was just about to put on the splendidly embroidered shirt, when there was a knock at the door. Expecting his squire, he barked a short "Cum in" and went on dressing, not bothering to turn.

"Oh, excuse me, my lord, I didn't know..."

Swivelling round, he met the sight of a middle-aged servant, blushing to the roots of her hair. "My lady sends me to…" With a trembling hand she held out a letter, avoiding his eye.

Jerking his head towards the desk near the window, he ordered her to put the letter there, but she shook her head. "The princess asks you to reply, my lord."

Taking the letter, he went over to the window, pulling down the semi-donned shirt on the way. The seal showed the Dol Amroth swan, flanked by two flowers, and breaking it, he scanned the short note.

_Éomer,_

_I would very much appreciate to talk to you before the official meeting, as there are important and urgent matters I wished to be talked over and settled beforehand._

_If you can spare some time I would like to meet you at the big plane tree in my parents' garden._

_Please reply._

_Lothíriel_

He frowned. As much as he desired to talk to her, the phrasing of the letter forebode difficulties. Turning round to the waiting servant, he said: "Yes."

"Pardon, my lord?" The poor woman was totally flabbergasted.

"Your lady wanted me to answer. The answer is: Yes. Go and tell her." Flustered and with a more than doubtful look at the King of Rohan, the servant left the room.

Reading the letter again, he shrugged. No matter what it might be, if she thought some discussion necessary, who was he to hesitate. Things had up to now simply gone too fast and smooth, there had to be a hitch somewhere.

Wrinkling his nose at the velvet tunic on the bed, he decided the shirt would do, as anything additional would make him sweat within the minute. So he slipped into the light shoes the princess had provided for him, shove his dagger into his belt and made for Imrahil's private garden.

**ooo**

Turning at one of the fountains, he headed for the big plane that cast this part of the garden into a fluttering shade. His energetic steps were clearly audible on the gravel, despite him wearing no boots, and when he came around the last bend of the garden-path, he found Lothíriel rising from the stone bench she had been sitting on below the protruding branches of the old tree. Wearing a simple light-blue dress of finest linen, her jet-black hair gathered at the nape of her neck with a ribbon of the same colour, she seemed much younger than her usual bearing caused to suggest.

Extending her hand towards him, she addressed him, her voice a little halting. "Thank you for coming, my lord."

In an attempt to lighten the atmosphere, he fell back to the teasing tone of their morning encounter. "Stop my-lording me. And remember: It was you, who told me to."

She gave him a half-smile, still nervous but nevertheless acknowledging his effort. "We are not on a boat, and it was about my-ladying, which I would never do in your case."

He wished he could continue in that bantering way, but knew too well it would not do justice to her uneasiness. Whatever she was intending to tell him, she needed to know that he cared. Taking her right hand, he stroke its back and the bandaged wrist. "Lothíriel, wherever we are, I would be glad if you used my name. And I already told you that I like yours."

She nodded her consent and for a short moment an awkward silence lasted, none of them wanting to start the due discussion, but then the princess lifted her chin determinedly and began to talk. "Éomer, I am sorry for the rash decision I confronted you with this morning. It must have seemed quite an assault to you."

Éomer shook his head. "Lothíriel, I told you, you were to set the pace. I have to admit you performed quite a tantivy, but I assure you: I don't mind at all, quite on the contrary. I proposed to you, and I was waiting for your answer."

She drew a deep breath. "I know, but nevertheless things should have been done differently, more personally and in private." Blushing profoundly, she added: "I would not have liked to be in your place."

"Well, as a matter of fact I was quite astonished to learn that I had agreed to an assumption your father certainly never had made, but as it obviously meant to trump some Gondorean noble, I was not at all averse to it." Giving her a big grin, he kissed her knuckles.

She twisted her mouth askew and then sighed. "I know it was oblique, but when I found Lord Radhruin with my father, I knew I had to act at once to create accomplished facts, just to prevent further complications, and so I fell back on my father's explicit authority."

_Accomplished facts and no doubt! _And he had to admit he was extremely happy with them. Smiling he stroke his thumb over her palm. "Don't you worry. Who knows better than me that a general can't explain his orders and decisions in the middle of a raging battle, but would you mind telling me now, who this Lord Radhruin is?"

She nodded. "That's why I asked you to see me. Partly at least." She seemed less agitated now, though Éomer thought her to be still far from confident and not wanting to press her, he simply waited, holding her hand.

She did not take long though to regain her composure and started to explain. "He's the Lord of Pelargir's eldest son and by no means a weak character, though you certainly found him vain and haughty this morning. But he's a gifted sea captain and commander, though still quite young. And he is one of Amrothos' friends. Before the war he, that is his father, had proposed for me to Father."

She paused, obviously not sure how to continue, but sensing there was more she wanted him to know, Éomer stayed quiet, giving her time to sort out her thoughts and emotions. They stood silently hand in hand for some time, the princess seemingly deep in thought, and with a jolt of his heart he suddenly noticed, that her fingers had started to correspond with his own in the stroking motion.

Realising what she was doing, she withdrew her hand and continued explaining. "It's not that I have anything against him, and had the times not been so dire, Father might have had agreed. But as it was, he was not too keen on having me stay in Pelargir, where in all likelihood a major blow would fall to open the river towards Minas Tirith for the enemy, and therefore he turned Lord Radhruin's offer down, putting him off till … well, nobody knew when."

_So she had known about at least one candidate when she had talked to him about ending up in an arranged marriage … but she had not seemed too enthusiastic. _He struggled not to let the feeling of triumph show on his face. "I see. So you suddenly found yourself confronted with two suitors and had to make up your mind on the spot."

Her reaction nearly had him double over with laughter: She snorted! "Do you really think I decided that very moment? No, Éomer, I had chosen well before. I only had to make clear what the facts were. "

He couldn't help it now, feeling simply glorious, he had to tease her. "You certainly have done that my lady, and I'd like to congratulate you upon your excellent choice."

Joining in his bantering tone, she raised her eyebrows. "How come that I have the strong suspicion that Éothain's remark would be quite suitable as an answer here."

He winked at her. "Am I that arrogant?"

She grinned. "If you try to, you certainly manage to be. But tell me, which word means _arrogant_?"

"_Wlanclic. _And as for the meaning of the other word: We all sit on it." Managing a straight face was difficult, as she grinned from ear to ear, totally unabashed.

"He surely does not mince his words, that captain of your guard."

"No, he surely doesn't. But besides the fact that he has been my close friend since childhood, being outspoken is something like an ethnic trait with the people of the Mark you had better get used to." Not that he thought she would have any problem with that. Squeezing her hand, he silently congratulated himself on his unbounded luck in his choice of a wife.

"The Rohirrim don't care much for rank, do they?" Despite her smile, there was a palpable seriousness in her tone.

He nodded."Yes and no. Rank certainly is important, but in a somewhat different way than in Gondor. Once they have made up their mind, they are reliable and fiercely loyal, but you have to prove you deserve that rank first."

She was silent at this, and he felt the urge to hug her, assure her that she would be welcome in the Mark, but there was something in her bearing that let him hesitate. There was a kind of unease he could not comprehend, a notion of something that had not been there in the morning. Was she overwhelmed by the necessary overhastiness of the events? Was she perhaps even regretting her decision? He scolded himself for his doubts, but he knew he had to find out. Composed and serious, he posed his question: "Lothíriel, why did you prefer me?"

Her head jerked up. "Are you daft?" Covering her mouth with her hand, she blushed at the slip of her tongue, but nevertheless proceeded after a moment of shock.

"Éomer, what do you expect me to answer? What do you think my family expected me to do?

Had she only acted to comply with everyone's expectations? His feeling of being rebuffed and misunderstood showed clearly on his face. Shaking her head about his lack of understanding, she went on, talking against his stubborn silence. "For Uinen's sweet mercy, what woman would not have preferred you? The young king of an uprising nation, our king's closest friend, Gondor's most important alley. And besides all that, said young king is quite handsome. No, not even Lord Radhruin himself would have thought he had the slightest chance, had he known you had proposed."

"Sure to expect reason from Imrahil's daughter." Without avail he tried to hide his disappointment.

Seeing his frustration, she sighed. "It always had been an arranged marriage for me …"

He scolded himself for being unreasonable. Under the circumstances given, his question had been improper and mistimed. She had given him a frank though hurtful answer, but he himself had asked for it. Better a clean hurt than a polite lie. He managed a lopsided grin. "And I'm not a bad choice?"

She nodded. "I told you so. There certainly could be no arrangement of greater national importance for Gondor and Rohan than a union between Rohan's king and the highest ranking Gondorean woman available."

Was that really the sole motive for her choice? Some part of his brain stubbornly refused to accept it. You did not stroke a man's hand for political reasons. And all that daring banter in the morning … for national importance? He was not buying that! Taking both her hands, he pulled them to his chest. "Lothíriel, what's wrong with you? You sound like my councillors."

"Do I?" She smiled mirthlessly. "I thought I sounded like Dol Amroth's. I have had them lecturing me on the importance of the alliance for nearly two hours this afternoon. Beyond doubt they see our marriage as some kind of high point of the trade agreements. _And the last item of the auction: The princess of Dol Amroth to the most significant bidder._"

Éomer sighed. Exactly what he had been afraid of, but it had to be expected. They were representatives of their peoples and nations first, but he would not let that mar their right to happiness. "I'm afraid thoughts will not differ much in the Mark. They will see you as a token of appreciation for Rohan's commitment at first, but they will come to know you, and then will cherish you for yourself. "

"I know. I will have to convince them that I ..." She stopped, as if realising that she was about to say something that had better stayed unsaid.

Breathing deep, she shook herself. "I'm sorry Éomer, I should not have let them affect me that much, and I should not have vented my frustration on you." She shrugged. "I knew all these things beforehand, and they would have held their speech no matter who I married, it was just that ..." Again she hesitated, looking at his hands cupping hers. Then, never lifting her eyes, she admitted: "It was just that I had felt so idiotically happy this morning, and then .."

Smiling he lifted both her hands to his lips. "You did?"

Now she looked up, facing him openly. "I had the feeling that I had found someone who understood me and would accept me, let me be the way I am. And I had the feeling of having a real choice … till those councillors came and made it clear to me that there never had been any choice in reality, because out of my duty as a Princess of Dol Amroth I could not have done otherwise."

_Councillors! Couldn't they just go and hang themselves? _"Lothíriel, whatever they think and say, it_ was_ you to decide and it still is. I will not have you do anything you feel not willing to."

She gave him a wobbly smile. "I know, and I know I can rely on everything you said, I trust you."

"Then why do I have the feeling that you are not confident at all?" Her shakiness deeply troubled him, as it contradicted everything he had seen of her so far. Was this the same woman who had boldly claimed him for her own this very morning?

"Because..." Avoiding his glance, she bit her lip.

He could not bear her distress any longer. Squeezing her hands, he softly kissed her forehand. "Lothíriel, you say you trust me, and I know you are open-minded and venturous, so what keeps you from telling me your troubles?"

Another deep breath and a shrug. "I don't know how to phrase it."

Pulling her close, he brushed his cheek over her temple. "Try. Try as directly and simply as you can."

"I will, but you have to let go of me"

Remembering her behaviour on the battlement, he reluctantly loosened his grip on her, and immediately she took one step back. What could it be that she needed that much courage and self-conquest for?

Squaring her shoulders, she resorted to the acquired stance of the Lady of the Realm, but her voice betrayed her persistent unease. "I would like to ask you something … That is, I would like to ask something from you."

What could that be, that it caused her such an effort to utter? Smiling assuringly at her, he acknowledged: "Anything, if it is in my ability."

Her hands folded behind her back, she looked very much like giving a speech in council and nearly managed to sound cool and composed. "As it is, our wedding is to take place coming March. Our betrothal is to be announced after dinner. It's the custom in Gondor that the bond is affirmed by a kiss."

He was totally at a loss, as to what she was aiming at, certainly what she had mentioned was nothing that could trouble her that much. He had to get to the bottom of all this. "Lothíriel, please, just tell me, what you want me to do."

She swallowed, blushed, but nevertheless locked on to his gaze. "It's rather what I don't want you to do: I don't want our first kiss to be something dictated by custom, practised in front of the assembled council."

He blinked. Was she telling him what he thought she was? _Béma, this woman was contradiction_ _incarnated_! There she stood, proud and erect: his pirate princess, and yet beneath this impenetrable surface he sensed the young vulnerable woman she was. What fascinated him exceedingly was the spiritedness that caused he to overcome her violability and instead dare anything in her way. Yet he felt a little unsure if he had got her right; had she, a Gondorean princess, really asked him to kiss her?

He stepped up to her, reaching out to touch her, but she turned away, and the defensive raising of her hand stopped him. "Please, hear me out. I know that my behaviour would be called wanton in Gondor, but I trust that you will not judge me according to Gondor's standards. I ..."

She hesitated, and drawing a ragged breath, she turned back to face him again. "Éomer, you will leave the day after tomorrow. We have had but two days to come to know each other, and there will be six months of separation in front of us. I … I'm afraid I will forget you, forget your face over the winter."

Seeing the despair in her dark grey eyes it was difficult not to sweep her up in his arms, kiss her worries away. He sighed. "Lothíriel, what do you want me to do?"

"Nothing. I mean, I don't want _you _to do anything, but ..." Her gaze dropped to the gravel at her feet. "Would you allow me to touch you?"

It took him a second to realise that his jaw had dropped. He shut his mouth abruptly, his teeth clicking together. He had never expected her to be _that_ bold. Yet there was nothing seductive or salacious in her bearing and mien. Did she even fully comprehend what she was asking? He didn't dare to respond, not trusting his voice. What made her to utter such a request?

Having delivered the most difficult part of her request, she seemed to feel relieved, and raising her eyes again to his, she attempted to explain. "I have no experience, but I suppose it's like swimming, riding, sailing ... what you will. Once you have learned it, you won't forget. It's not that your brain knows, it's not solely reason, it's your body that remembers. Don't misunderstand me, I … I don't want anything indecent or improper, I never … I mean ..." She spluttered and stopped, swallowing hard.

How could she be so outright bold and so entirely innocent at the same time? Éomer felt totally captivated. She looked like a lost child rather than the challenging young woman he knew. If it weren't for her genuine worries, he would have laughed out. But that would not do. She had trusted him, relaid on his care and understanding, it was his task to stop her misgivings, to show her that her trustfulness was appreciated. Smiling into her anxious face, he took half a step forwards and spread out his arms. "Don't you worry, Lothíriel, I'm at your command. Indulge yourself and touch me as much as you want."

Her gaze became worried as if she didn't trust her own courage, but nevertheless she proceeded. Stepping close, she raised her hand, but still hesitated, biting her lip. Éomer felt mirth raise within him.

"Don't be afraid, Lothíriel, go ahead." Cooing to her like to a frightened filly, he tried to encourage her.

Her outstretched hand touched his cheek, followed the edge of his beard, slid down to his jawline, while their eyes stayed locked.

"I can't!" Stepping back, she let her hand sink, looking utterly frustrated. "I can't if you look at me like that."

He couldn't help a chuckle. She was splendid, so sweet and defiant in her frustration. He was about to pull her close when she advanced on him, poking her forefinger in his chest. "You!" Her eyes sparkled with determination. "Close your eyes!"

"What?" His eyebrows shot up to his hairline.

"Close your eyes. I can't touch you if you watch me."

Still chuckling, he did her bidding and … froze. A sudden feeling of uncertainty swept up his spine, like clammy fingers brushing his vertebrae. Not seeing her, he did not know how close she was, could not comprehend what she felt, had no warning were and when she would touch him. _And Béma, he wanted her to touch him!_

The low crunch of the gravel told him she was nearing, then he felt her fingers again, caressing his cheek this time, gliding over to his ear, tucking a strand of hair behind it, her fingertips following the outline of his ear before sliding down his throat, making his larynge jump. Her other hand came to rest on his shoulder, her thumb scanning the edge of his collar bone. She must have stepped closer, as he felt her breath on the skin of his throat, noticed the smell of her hair ... sandalwood and something he could not work out, her fingers now trailing his jawline, soft, slightly touching, caressing and torturing in one... and disappeared. His senses highlighted, he waited for her next move.

There! A single fingertip brushed over his lower lip. Slowly, tenderly outlining its edge, sending ripples of desire through his body … and was gone. She must have stepped back. Was she watching him? Was she appreciating what she saw? He felt the urge to open his eyes, end the uncertainty, but then there were her hands again, gingerly stroking the upper part of his body, from his shoulders down to his waist, sliding over the plane of his chest with a feathery touch. The delicate linen of his festive shirt did little to numb the experience, and he sucked in his breath with a hitching sound, when her fingers stroke over his nipples. Immediately her hands were withdrawn.

"Éomer?" Her voice was anxious. "Have I incommoded you?"

He did not know whether to groan or to laugh. This would have been hilarious, had it not been so torturing. She was blissfully unaware she was burning him alive! Not trusting his voice, he shook his head.

It took her some time to speak again, and when she did so, her voice was halting. "May I continue?"

He nodded, holding his breath.

This time she started from his waist, moving her hands up his sides, over his shoulders, up his neck, losing themselves in the nape of his hair.

And all of a sudden he felt her lithe body press against his own, only lightly, as if accidentally and at the same time there was her breath, close, so close, smelling of the aromatic seeds the Gondiorean women used to chew, fluttering over the skin of his throat, his chin, nearing ever so slowly, till her lips touched his mouth, barely discernible, brushing over his lower lip.

He clenched his fists to keep his hands from clasping round her, pressing her to his tense body. She was obviously standing on tiptoes now, claiming access to his upper lip, which caused her to lean still closer into him. He ground his teeth to keep himself from groaning, his whole body tense, hard with desire.

_Béma, how far would she go?_ He was fast reaching his limits. And then he felt her tongue nudge against his lower lip, fleetingly at first, more insistent the second time, until more daring, she pulled his head down to her and her mouth covered his, soft and moist, sweet, her lips slightly opened, resting pressureless for just a heartbeat, till finally her tongue traced the curve of his lower lip.

He could not help it: Of their own volition his hands slid down to her waist, his lips opened, inviting her to explore further. She hesitated and he felt her shiver before ever so slowly her tongue followed his invitation, tentatively approaching, withdrawn immediately as their tongues met.

He stood waiting, holding his breath, his nostrils flaring with suppressed desire. There it was again, the soft, torturing touch, a little bolder this time, yet wary like some wild animal, ready to retreat at the slightest danger. He had to muster all his willpower not to groan into the sweet hollow of her mouth, afraid to scare her away. And then his brain simply stopped functioning.

How his left hand had come to slide to the small of her back, pulling her close, while his right had slid up, supporting her head as he bent it back to claim her lips in a devouring kiss, he never knew. For a split second she stiffened in surprised shock and then her arms encircled him. Giving him lead and access, she seemed to melt for a moment under the fierceness of his onslaught, and then she counter-attacked, sucking in his lower lip, her fingers gliding down his sides in a breath-taking dance.

Gathering her to his body, he kissed his way down to her throat, rejoicing in her breathless moan of pleasure as his teeth grazed over the tender skin, the wild tattoo of her heart, racing under the touch of his tongue in the hollow of her throat. Cupping the firm softness of her breast, he felt her breath hitch, while her grip tightened, her body arching into his. _A woman like wildfire! _And like a wildfire his desire blazed up at that sound between moan and yelp she uttered when he stroked his thumb over her hardened nipples.

With an uncontrollable jerk her body tensed, her pelvis grinding into the hardness of his arousal, her fingernails digging into his flesh. Need roared in his blood, a hunger beyond his control, and meeting her ecstasy, he wedged his thigh between her legs. He wanted her and he would have her, here and now, he … With a painful jolt he came to his senses. _Béma, what_ _was he doing?_

His eyes flew open, and the view of her face caused his heart to skip a beat. Her head was still flung back, exposing her throat to him, her eyes closed, her slightly opened lips bruised and moist from his onslaught. But it was the expression of rapture and absolute abandon on her face that nearly undid him.

_Let them blame him for what he had done, he would do it again any time without any trace of remorse, just for the joy of seeing her like that._

"Lothíriel ..." His voice was hoarse, alien to his ear. Her eyes opened, hazy grey orbs, staring at him unfocussed. He gently stroked her cheek, fighting back the urge to claim those sweet lips again.

For a moment she looked at him uncomprehending, then she blinked and stepped back, detaching herself from him, only to stagger back against him as her knees buckled. Hugging her tenderly, he nuzzled the crown of her head. "Lothíriel, I'm afraid we have to stop. We ... I lost control and got carried away."

"_You_ lost control?" She gapped at him in total disbelief. "How …? I didn't know … I thought … " Blushing furiously, she raised her hand to her lips. "I didn't know men could lose control when … I mean in a situation like this."

"What?" He could not make head or tail of what she was saying. Could she really be that naïve? Having kissed him like that?

His doubt must have shown, because she started to explain in an insistent tone, her face showing an expression in-between sheepish and stubborn. "From what I overheard eavesdropping when Roth and Erchi came home from the taverns, discussing their ...well … conquests, with men it is all purpose and determination. I … I did not know they might lose control ... at least my brothers never said anything the like. From what I heard and guessed it is just men making women lose control, like "kissing them senseless" and "sweeping them off their feet" ... and I did not appreciate that thought overmuch, as I do not like being senseless and controlled by anybody else."

Now it was Éomer's turn to blink. "Lothíriel, there certainly are times when a man stays in control, and there certainly are men who like it that way, but there is no rule about it. It can well be the other way round: the woman staying in control, but I believe, if it is good and strong, passion is something mutual, something man and woman share. You made me lose control, and that caused me to make you lose control: It's give and take, not ruling over each other."

"I _made_ you lose control?" Still uncertain she looked at him, shaking her head, when he nodded. "I would never have behaved the way I did, had I know that could happen."

"Was it so terrible?" With a low chuckle he pulled her hands to his lips.

She shook her head vehemently. "No, not at all but … I would never have embarrassed you on purpose."

"Embarrassed me?" His brows raised to his hairline.

"Well, yes, making you lose control, I mean." She was no doubt apprehensive.

Chuckling he let his teeth graze over her knuckles. "Do you think I should feel embarrassed because of losing control? Do you feel embarrassed because you lost yours?"

"No, … no, I don't." She looked genuinely amazed. "But I had believed before that I would. And you are a man, so ..." Her voice petering out, she averted her head.

_Béma, what was she tormenting herself with! _He had to get these absurd notions out of her head. Lowering his head, he whispered into her ear. "Lothíriel, tell me: Do you think me less a man because you could make me lose control?"

She dared a quick glimpse down to his groin. _So she had noticed!_ He found it incredibly difficult not to grin.

"No, certainly not." She paused, pondering what had occurred. "But you did not really lose yourself anyway: You stopped us in time."

He nodded ruefully. "Yes, but that's because I knew what I was up to, and I managed only just in time." Sighing he gathered her hands to his chest. "Perhaps you are right, and I should feel embarrassed. We probably escaped a scandal by a hair's breath."

Locking his gaze with hers, he could not help the rakish grin that crept over his face. "But I think it was well worth the risk."

She nodded thoughtfully. "Yes, it certainly was, though I had not known about that danger when I asked your permission to touch you."

"Did you really believe me staying cool as a fish with you touching me like that?" He teasingly kissed the tip of her nose.

Wrinkling her nose, she grinned. "No, I had expected some reaction, though not such … intensity." She nestled against his chest. "It has all been so different from what I had planned."

"From what you had planned?" Éomer chuckled, softly nipping her ear. "So you had planned the curse you were sailing quite carefully, my scipflota cwen?

With a wry smile she squeezed his hands. "Yes indeed, I just hadn't known there were riptides."

"It would not have helped to know. I did and still I could not help being dragged out."

"It is so strange. I had been so uncertain about what to expect, so ashamed that I would … submit to a man's ... control ... and at the same time I … I completely trusted you, believed you would not do anything I did not want you to do." She sighed. "I longed to feel you, but I did not want you to control me,... not now, knowing so little of you … I believed, if I remembered the feeling of your body I would be able to accept the thought that at our wedding I would give you access to … " Shaking her head, she looked up into his face. "I made a complete idiot out of myself."

"No, you didn't. You saw a problem and you acted to solve it, though not knowing all the necessary facts." He felt warmth spread inside him. Not the searing heat of passion, but the steady reliable warmth of care. She had trusted him, and based on this trust, boldly plunged into unknown waters. Resting his forehead against hers, he closed his eyes, whispering his hope and heart's desire to her. "Lothíriel, never cease trusting me. I never will strive for domination and mastery over you. We will find our way to please each other, to enjoy each other's care and love. Believe me, we will find love. Perhaps it is already there, and we just have to give it time to grow."

From the watchtower at the harbour the tolling of the bells announcing the setting of the sun sounded over the town, causing him to rise his head with surprise. Could it already be that late? They had to get ready for dinner.

Reluctantly he made to let go of her, but nestling her head against his shoulder, she wrapped her arms around him. "Just hold me for a little longer. There will be no chance like this, once our engagement is announced."

_Just a little longer … For the rest of his life._

After a while she pulled away half a step, and reaching out to softly stroke his cheek, she sighed deeply, her face in an expression of incredulous delight. "It's so strange, so totally unbelievable. I never knew I could feel like that, forgetting all my fears and misgivings. I still can't comprehend it."

"Was it so surprising?" Cupping his hand around hers, he guided it to his lips, softly kissing her palm. She simply nodded, leaning into him.

"So will you remember me now, over those long months of winter?" He had meant to say it teasingly, but his voice gave away the seriousness he felt.

"Yes, and even if your features will blur before my inner eye, thinking of you, I will always be able to recall how your touch made me feel." Her voice was a mere whisper, her breath caressing his ear.

_Madness … sweet madness. _Gently he put his arms around her, resting his chin on the crown of her head_. _"Tell me how, Lothíriel." _Give me a dream to remember._

She hesitated, her hands moving up his chest till they reached his shoulders. When she finally spoke, her voice was scarcely audible, low and soft, like dark velvet enveloping his senses. "Heavy... heavy and ... yielding. As if my blood had turned into something viscous, pulsing through my veins ... slow and sweet … like honey, making me feel heavy and warm ... dragging me down … till my senses were filled with nothing but the urge to lay down and melt."

Crushing her to his chest in a vice-like grip, he threw his head back in triumph. _His! _Male pride surged through his veins, coveting, sharp and aggressive, soaring like a bird of prey in the upwind of the mountains … and then faded, leaving room to some other feeling that rose within him, flooding his senses, blurring any distinction of flesh, mind and soul. A feeling he did not dare to name yet, pooling through his entire being, dark, warm, deep red and sweet, yet edged with some inapprehensible melancholy, like the slightly bitter aftertaste of ripe wild cherries.

With a sigh he loosened his grip on her, burrowing his face in the hollow of her neck.

The coming winter would certainly be long and lonely in Edoras.

**Annotations:**

**cum in: **(No! Not what you mean! ;-)) (Rohirric/Anglo-Saxon) enter; come in**  
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**tantivy: **very fast gallop

**scipflota:** (Rohirric/Anglo-Saxon) pirate

**cwen: **(Rohirric/Anglo-Saxon) princess


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